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OBITER   DICTA. 


OBITER    DICTA 


'  An  obiter  dictum,  in  the  language  of  the 
law,  is  a  gratuitous  opinion,  an  individual  im- 
pertinence, which,  whether  it  be  wise  or  foolish, 
right  or  wrong,  bindcth  none  —  not  even  the 
lips  that  utter  it.' 

Old  Judge. 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1SS5 


The  Riverside  Press,  Camhridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


I 


PREFACE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  EDITION. 

This  seems  a  very  little  book  to  intro- 
duce to  so  large  a  conti?ient.  No  such 
enterprise  would  ever  have  suggested 
itself  to  the  home-keeping  mind  of  the 
Author,  -who,  none  the  less,  when  this 
edition  was  proposed  to  him  by  Messrs. 
Scribner  on  terms  honorable  to  them 
and  grateful  to  him,  found  the  notion 
of  being  read  in  America  most  fra- 
grant and  delightful. 

London,  Februaty  i^,  i88^. 


473533 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

Carlyle       I 

On   the  Alleged    Obscurity   of    Mr. 

Browning's  Poetry   ....  55 

Truth-Hunting 96 

Actors 123 

A  Rogue's  Memoirs  .        .        .        -154 

The  Via  Media 178 

Falstaff 200 


CARLYLE. 

The  accomplishments  of  our  race 
have  of  late  become  so  varied,  that 
it  is  often  no  easy  task  to  assign  him 
whom  we  would  judge  to  his  proper 
station  among  men  ;  and  yet,  until 
this  has  been  done,  the  guns  of  our 
criticism  cannot  be  accurately  lev- 
elled, and  as  a  consequence  the  great- 
er part  of  our  fire  must  remain  futile. 
He,  for  example,  who  would  essay  to 
take  account  of  Air.  Gladstone,  must 
read  much  else  besides  Hansard  ;  he 
must  brush  up  his  Homer,  and  set 
himself  to  acquire  some  theology. 
The  place  of  Greece  in  the  provi- 
dential order  of  the  world,  and  of 
laymen  in  the   Church  of   England, 


2  CARL  YLE. 

must  be  considered,  together  with  a 
host  of  other  subjects  of  much  appa- 
rent irrelevance  to  a  statesman's  life. 
So  too  in  the  case  of  his  distinguished 
rival,  whose  death  eclipsed  the  gaiety 
of  politics  and  banished  epigram  from 
Parliament :  keen  must  be  the  criti- 
cal faculty  which  can  nicely  discern 
where  the  novelist  ended  and  the 
statesman  began  in  Benjamin  Dis- 
raeli. 

Happily,  no  such  difficulty  is  now 
before  us.  Thomas  Carlyle  was  a 
writer  of  books,  and  he  was  nothing- 
else.  Beneath  this  judgment  he 
would  have  winced,  but  have  re- 
mained silent,  for  the  facts  are  so. 

Little  men  sometimes,  though  not 
perhajDS  so  often  as  is  taken  for 
granted,  complain  of  their  destiny, 
and  think  they  have  been  hardly 
treated,  in  that  they  have  been 
allowed  to  remain  so  undeniably 
small ;   but  great  men,   with  hardly 


CARL  YLE.  3 

an  exception,  nauseate  their  great- 
ness, for  not  being  of  the  particu- 
lar sort  they  most  fancy.  The  poet 
Gray  was  passionately  fond,  so  his 
biographers  tell  us,  of  military  histo- 
ry ;  but  he  took  no  Quebec.  General 
Wolfe  took  Quebec,  and  whilst  he 
was  taking  it,  recorded  the  fact  that 
he  would  sooner  have  written  Gray's 
'Elegy';  and  so  Carlyle  —  who  pant- 
ed for  action,  who  hated  eloquence, 
whose  heroes  were  Cromwell  and 
Wellington,  Arkwright  and  the  'rug- 
ged Brindley,'  who  beheld  with  pride 
and  no  ignoble  envy  the  bridge 
at  Auldgarth  his  mason-father  had 
helped  to  build  half  a  century  before, 
and  then"  exclaimed,  'A  noble  craft, 
that  of  a  mason  ;  a  good  building  will 
last  longer  than  most  books  —  than 
one  book  in  a  million  '  ;  who  despised 
men  of  letters,  and  abhorred  the 
'  reading  public '  ;  whose  gospel  was 
Silence  and  Action  —  spent  his  life  in 


4  CARL  YLE. 

talking  and  writing  ;  and  his  legacy 
to  the  world  is  thirty-four  volumes 
octavo. 

There  is  a  familiar  melancholy  in 
this  ;  but  the  critic  has  no  need  to 
grow  sentimental.  We  must  have 
men  of  thought  as  well  as  men  of  ac- 
tion :  poets  as  much  as  generals ;  au- 
thors no  less  than  artizans  ;  libraries 
at  least  as  much  as  militia ;  and 
therefore  we  may  accept  and  proceed 
critically  to  examine  Carlyle's  thirty- 
four  volumes,  remaining  somewhat 
indifferent  to  the  fact  that  had  he 
had  the  fashioning  of  his  own  desti- 
ny, we  should  have  had  at  his  hands 
blows  instead  of  books. 

Taking  him,  then,  as  he  was  —  a 
man  of  letters  —  perhaps  the  best 
type  of  such  since  Dr.  Johnson  died 
in  Fleet  Street,  what  are  we  to  say 
of  his  thirty-four  volumes  .-* 

In  them  are  to  be  found  criticism, 
biography,    history,    politics,    poetry, 


CARL  YLE.  5 

and  religion.  1  mention  this  variety 
because  of  a  foolish  notion,  at  one 
time  often  found  suitably  lodged  in 
heads  otherwise  empty,  that  Carlyle 
was  a  passionate  old  man,  dominated 
by  two  or  three  extravagant  ideas,  to 
which  he  was  for  ever  giving  utter- 
ance in  language  of  equal  extrava- 
gance. The  thirty-four  volumes  oc- 
tavo render  this  opinion  untenable  by 
those  who  can  read.  Carlyle  cannot 
be  killed  by  an  epigram,  nor  can  the 
many  influences  that  moulded  him 
be  referred  to  any  single  source. 
The  rich  banquet  his  genius  has 
spread  for  us  is  of  many  courses. 
The  fire  and  fury  of  the  Latter-Day 
Pamphlets  may  be  disregarded  by 
the  peaceful  soul,  and  the  preference 
given  to  the  *  Past '  of  '  Past  and  Pre- 
sent,' which,  with  its  intense  and 
sympathetic  mediaevalism,  might  have 
been  written  by  a  Tractarian.  The 
'  Life   of    Sterling '    is   the  favourite 


6  CARL  YLE. 

book  of  many  who  would  sooner  pick 
oakum  than  read  'Frederick  the. 
Great '  all  through  ;  whilst  the  mere 
student  of  belles  lettres  may  attach 
importance  to  the  essays  on  Johnson, 
Burns,  and  Scott,  on  Voltaire  and 
Diderot,  on  Goethe  and  Novalis,  and 
yet  remain  blankly  indifferent  to 
'  Sartor  Resartus  '  and  '  The  French 
Revolution.' 

But  true  as  this  is,  it  is  none  the 
less  true  that,  excepting  possibly  the 
'Life  of  Schiller,'  Carlyle  wrote  no- 
thing not  clearly  recognisable  as  his. 
All  his  books  are  his  very  own  — 
bone  of  his  bone,  and  flesh  of  his 
flesh.  They  are  not  stolen  goods, 
nor  elegant  exhibitions  of  recently 
and  hastily  acquired  wares. 

This  being  so,  it  may  be  as  well 
if,  before  proceeding  any  further,  I 
attempt,  with  a  scrupulous  regard  to 
brevity,  to  state  what  I  take  to  be  the 
invariable  indications  of  Mr.  Carlyle's 


CARL  YLE.  7 

literary  handiwork  —  the  tokens  of 
his  presence  —  '  Thomas  Carlylc,  his 
mark.' 

First  of  all,  it  may  be  stated,  with- 
out a  shadow  of  a  doubt,  that  he  is 
one  of  those  who  would  sooner  be 
wrong  with  Plato  than  right  with 
Aristotle  ;  in  one  word,  he  is  a  mys- 
tic. What  he  says  of  Novalis  may 
with  equal  truth  be  said  of  himself : 
'  He  belongs  to  that  class  of  persons 
who  do  not  recognise  the  syllogistic 
method  as  the  chief  organ  for  inves- 
tigating truth,  or  feel  themselves 
bound  at  all  times  to  stop  short  where 
its  light  fails  them.  Many  of  his 
opinions  he  would  despair  of  prov- 
ing in  the  most  patient  court  of  law, 
and  would  remain  well  content  that 
they  should  be  disbelieved  there.'  In 
philosophy  we  shall  not  be  very  far 
wrong  if  we  rank  Carlyle  as  a  fol- 
lower of  Bishop  Berkeley ;  for  an 
idealist  he  undoubtedly  was.     'Mat- 


8  CARL  YLE. 

ter,'  says  he,  '  exists  only  spiritually, 
and  to  represent  some  idea,  and  body 
it  forth.  Heaven  and  Earth  are  but 
the  time-vesture  of  the  Eternal.  The 
Universe  is  but  one  vast  symbol  of 
God ;  nay,  if  thou  wilt  have  it,  what 
is  man  himself  but  a  symbol  of  God  .-' 
Is  not  all  that  he  does  symbolical,  a 
revelation  to  sense  of  the  mystic  God- 
given  force  that  is  in  him.? — a  gospel 
of  PVeedom,  which  he,  the  "Messias 
of  Nature,"  preaches  as  he  can  by 
act  and  word.'  'Yes,  Friends,'  he 
elsewhere  observes,  'not  our  logical 
mcnsurative  faculty,  but  our  imagina- 
tive one,  is  King  over  us,  I  might  say 
Priest  and  Prophet,  to  lead  us  heav- 
enward, or  magician  and  wizard  to 
lead  us  hellward.  The  understand- 
ing is  indeed  thy  window  —  too  clear 
thou  canst  not  make  it ;  but  phanta- 
sy is  thy  eye,  with  its  colour-giving 
retina,  healthy  or  diseased.'  It  would 
be  easy  to  multiply  instances  of  this, 


CARL  YLE.  9 

the  most  obvious  and  interesting 
trait  of  Mr.  Carlyle's  writing ;  but  I 
must  bring  my  remarks  upon  it  to 
a  close  by  reminding  you  of  his  two 
favourite  quotations,  which  have 
both  significance.  One  from  Shake- 
speare's Tempest: 

'  We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  arc  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep ; ' 

the  other,  the  exclamation  of  the 
Earth-spirit,  in  Goethe's  Fatist : 

"Tis  thus  at  the  roaring  loom  of  Time  I  ply, 
And  weave  for  God  the  garment  thou  seest  Him 
by.' 

But  this  is  but  one  side  of  Carlyle. 
There  is  another  as  strongly  marked, 
which  is  his  second  note  ;  and  that 
is  what  he  somewhere  calls  '  his 
stubborn  realism.'  The  combination 
of  the  two  is  as  charming  as  it  is 
rare.  No  one  at  all  acquainted  with 
his  writings  can  fail  to  remember 
his  almost  excessive  love  of  detail  ; 


10  CAKL  YLE. 

his  lively  taste  for  facts,  simply  as 
facts.  Imaginary  joys  and  sorrows 
may  extort  from  him  nothing  but 
grunts  and  snorts  ;  but  let  him  only 
worry  out  for  himself,  from  that  great 
dust-heap  called  'history,'  some  un- 
doubted fact  of  human  and  tender 
interest,  and,  however  small  it  may 
be,  relating  possibly  to  some  one 
hardly  known,  and  playing  but  a 
small  part  in  the  events  he  is  record- 
ing, and  he  will  wax  amazingly  sen- 
timental, and  perhaps  shed  as  many 
real  tears  as  Sterne  or  Dickens  do 
sham  ones  over  their  figments.  This 
realism  of  Carlyle's  gives  a  great 
charm  to  his  histories  and  biogra- 
phies. The  amount  he  tells  you  is 
something  astonishing  —  no  plati- 
tudes, no  rigmarole,  no  common- 
form,  articles  which  are  the  staple 
of  most  biography,  but,  instead  of 
them,  all  the  facts  and  features  of 
the    case  —  pedigree,    birth,    father 


CARL  YLE.  1 1 

and  mother,  brothers  and  sisters, 
education,  physiognomy,  personal 
habits,  dress,  mode  of  speech  ;  no- 
thing escapes  him.  It  was  a  charac- 
teristic criticism  of  his,  on  one  of 
Miss  Martineau's  American  books, 
that  the  story  of  the  way  Daniel 
Webster  used  to  stand  before  the 
fire  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
was  worth  all  the  politics,  philoso- 
phy, political  economy,  and  sociology 
to  be  found  in  other  portions  of  the 
good  lady's  writings.  Carlyle's  eye 
was  indeed  a  terrible  organ  :  he  saw 
everything.  Emerson,  writing  to 
him,  says  :  '  I  think  you  see  as  pic- 
tures every  street,  church.  Parlia- 
ment-house, barracks,  baker's  shop, 
mutton-stall,  forge,  wharf,  and  ship, 
and  whatever  stands,  creeps,  rolls,  or 
swims  thereabout,  and  make  all  your 
own.'  He  crosses  over,  one  rough 
day,  to  Dublin  ;  and  he  jots  down  in 
his  diary  the  personal  appearance  of 


12  CARLYLE. 

some  unhappy  creatures  he  never 
saw  before  or  expected  to  see  again ; 
how  men  laughed,  cried,  swore,  were 
all  of  huge  interest  to  Carlyle.  Give 
him  a  fact,  he  loaded  you  with 
thanks ;  propound  a  theory,  you 
were  rewarded  with  the  most  vivid 
abuse. 

This  intense  love  for,  and  faculty 
of  perceiving,  what  one  may  call  the 
'  concrete  picturesque,'  accounts  for 
his  many  hard  sayings  about  fiction 
and  poetry.  He  could  not  under- 
stand people  being  at  the  trouble  of 
inventing  characters  and  situations 
when  history  was  full  of  men  and 
women  ;  when  streets  were  crowded 
and  continents  were  being  peopled 
under  their  very  noses.  Emerson's 
sphynx-like  utterances  irritated  him 
at  times,  as  they  well  might ;  his  ora- 
tions and  the  like.  *  I  long,'  he  says, 
*  to  see  some  concrete  tiling,  some 
Event  —  Man's  Life,  American  For- 


CARL  YLE.  13 

est,  or  piece  of  Creation  whicli  this 
Emerson  loves  and  wonders  at,  well 
Eincrsonized,  depicted  by  Emerson 
—  filled  with  the  life  of  Emerson,  and 
cast  forth  from  him  then  to  live  by 
itself.'  *  But  Carlyle  forgot  the  slug- 
gishness of  the  ordinary  imagina- 
tion, and,  for  the  moment,  the  stu- 
pendous dulness  of  the  ordinary  his- 
torian. It  cannot  be  matter  for  sur- 
prise that  people  prefer  Smollett's 
'Humphrey  Clinker'  to  his  'History 
of  England.' 

1  One  need  scarcely  add,  nothing  of  the  sort 
ever  proceeded  from  Emerson.  How  should  it? 
Where  was  it  to  come  from  ?  When,  to  employ 
language  of  Mr.  Arnold's  own,  '  any  poor  child 
of  nature '  overhears  the  author  of  '  Essays  in 
Criticism '  telling  two  worlds  that  Emerson's  '  Es- 
says'  are  the  most  valuable  prose  contributions 
to  the  literature  of  the  century,  his  soul  is  indeed 
filled  '  with  an  unutterable  sense  of  lamentation 
and  mourning  and  woe.'  Mr.  Arnold's  silence 
was  once  felt  to  be  provoking.  Wordsworth's 
lines  kept  occurring  to  one's  mind  — 

'  Poor  Matthew,  all  his  frolics  o'er, 
Is  silent  as  a  standing  pool.' 

But  it  was  better  so. 


14  CAKLYLE. 

The  third  and  last  mark  to  which 
I  call  attention  is  his  humour.  No- 
where, surely,  in  the  whole  field  of 
English  literature,  Shakespeare  ex- 
cepted, do  you  come  upon  a  more 
abundant  vein  of  humour  than  Car- 
lyle's,  though  I  admit  that  the  quality 
of  the  ore  is  not  of  the  finest.  His 
every  production  is  bathed  in  hu- 
mour. This  must  never  be,  though 
it  often  has  been,  forgotten.  He  is 
not  to  be  taken  literally.  He  is  al- 
ways a  humourist,  not  unfrequently 
a  writer  of  burlesque,  and  occasion- 
ally a  buffoon. 

Although  the  spectacle  of  Mr. 
Swinburne  taking  Mr.  Carlyle  to 
task,  as  he  recently  did,  for  indelica- 
cy, has  an  oddity  all  its  own,  so  far  as 
I  am  concerned  I  cannot  but  concur 
with  this  critic  in  thinking  that  Car- 
lyle has  laid  himself  open,  particu- 
larly in  his  '  Frederick  the  Great,*  to 
the  charge  one  usually  associates  with 


CARLYLE.  15 

the  great  and  terrible  name  of  Dean 
Swift ;  but  it  is  the  Dean  with  a  dif- 
ference, and  the  difference  is  all  in 
Carlyle's  favour.  The  former  delib- 
erately pelts  you  with  dirt,  as  did  in 
old  days  gentlemen  electors  their 
parliamentary  candidates  ;  the  latter 
only  occasionally  splashes  you,  as 
does  a  public  vehicle  pursuing  on  a 
wet  day  its  uproarious  course. 

These,  then,  I  take  to  be  Carlyle's 
three  principal  marks  or  notes  :  mys- 
ticism in  thought,  realism  in  descrip- 
tion, and  humour  in  both. 

To  proceed  now  to  his  actual  liter- 
ary work. 

First,  then,  I  would  record  the 
fact  that  he  was  a  great  critic,  and 
this  at  a  time  when  our  literary 
criticism  was  a  scandal.  He  more 
than  any  other  has  purged  our  vision 
and  widened  our  horizons  in  this 
great  matter.  He  taught  us  there 
was  no  sort  of  finality,  but  only  non- 


l6  CARL  YLE. 

sense,  in  that  kind  of  criticism  which 
was  content  with  laying  down  some 
foreign  masterpiece  with  the  obser- 
vation that  it  was  not  suited  for  the 
English  taste.  He  was,  if  not  the 
first,  almost  the  first  critic,  who  pur- 
sued in  his  criticism  the  historical 
method,  and  sought  to  make  us 
understand  what  we  were  required 
to  judge.  It  has  been  said  that 
Carlyle's  criticisms  are  not  final,  and 
that  he  has  not  said  the  last  word 
about  Voltaire,  Diderot,  Richter,  and 
Goethe.  I  can  well  believe  it.  But 
reserving  '  last  words '  for  the  use  of 
the  last  man  (to  whom  they  would 
appear  to  belong),  it  is  surely  some- 
thing to  have  said  the  first  sensible 
words  uttered  in  English  on  these 
important  subjects.  We  ought  not 
to  forget  the  early  days  of  the 
Foreign  and  Quarterly  Review.  We 
have  critics  now,  quieter,  more  re- 
poseful  souls,  taking   their   ease   on 


CARLYLE.  17 

Zion,  who  have  entered  upon  a  world 
ready  to  welcome  them,  whose  keen 
rapiers  may  cut  velvet  better  than 
did  the  two-handed  broadsword  of 
Carlyle,  and  whose  later  date  may 
enable  them  to  discern  what  their 
forerunner  failed  to  perceive ;  but 
when  the  critics  of  this  century  come 
to  be  criticized  by  the  critics  of 
the  next,  an  honourable,  if  not  the 
highest  place  will  be  awarded  to 
Carlyle. 

Turn  we  now  to  the  historian  and 
biographer.  History  and  biography 
much  resemble  one  another  in  the 
pages  of  Carlyle,  and  occupy  more 
than  half  his  thirty-four  volumes  ; 
nor  is  this  to  be  wondered  at,  since 
they  afford  him  fullest  scope  for  his 
three  strong  points  —  his  love  of  the 
wonderful  ;  his  love  of  telling  a  story, 
as  the  children  say,  *  from  the  very 
beginning;'  and  his  humour.  His 
view  of   history  is  sufficiently  lofty. 


i8  CARL  YLE. 

History,  says  he,  is  the  true  epic 
poem,  a  universal  divine  scripture 
whose  plenary  inspiration  no  one  out 
of  Bedlam  shall  bring  into  question. 
Nor  is  he  quite  at  one  with  the 
ordinary  historian  as  to  the  true  his- 
torical method.  'The  time  seems 
coming  when  he  who  sees  no  world 
but  that  of  courts  and  camps,  and 
writes  only  how  soldiers  were  drilled 
and  shot,  and  how  this  ministerial 
conjurer  out-conjured  that  other,  and 
then  guided,  or  at  least  held,  some- 
thing which  he  called  the  rudder  of 
Government,  but  which  was  rather 
the  spigot  of  Taxation,  wherewith  in 
place  of  steering  he  could  tax,  will 
pass  for  a  more  or  less  instructive 
Gazetteer,  but  will  no  longer  be  called 
an  Historian.' 

Nor  does  the  philosophical  method 
of  writing  history  please  him  any 
better : 

'Truly    if    History    is    Philosophy 


CARL  YLE.  19 

teaching  by  examples,  the  writer 
fitted  to  compose  history  is  hitherto 
an  unknown  man.  Better  were  it 
that  mere  earthly  historians  should 
lower  such  pretensions,  more  suita- 
ble for  omniscience  than  for  human 
science,  and  aiming  only  at  some 
picture  of  the  things  acted,  which 
picture  itself  will  be  a  poor  approxi- 
mation, leave  the  inscrutable  purport 
of  them  an  acknowledged  secret  —  or 
at  most,  in  reverent  faith,  pause  over 
the  mysterious  vestiges  of  Him  whose 
path  is  in  the  great  deep  of  Time, 
whom  History  indeed  reveals,  but 
only  all  History  and  in  Eternity  will 
clearly  reveal.' 

This  same  transcendental  way  of 
looking  at  things  is  very  noticeable 
in  the  following  view  of  Biography : 
'  For,  as  the  highest  gospel  was  a 
Biography,  so  is  the  life  of  every  good 
man  still  an  indubitable  gospel,  and 
preaches  to  the  eye  and  heart  and 


20  CARL  YLE. 

whole  man,  so  that  devils  even  must 
believe  and  tremble,  these  gladdest 
tidings.  Man  is  heaven-born  —  not 
the  thrall  of  circumstances,  of  ne- 
cessity, but  the  victorious  subduer 
thereof.'  These,  then,  being  his  views, 
what  are  we  to  say  of  his  works  ? 
His  three  principal  historical  works 
are,  as  everyone  knows,  *  Cromwell,' 
'The  French  Revolution,' and  'Fre- 
derick the  Great,'  though  there  is  a 
very  considerable  amount  of  other 
historical  writing  scattered  up  and 
down  his  works.  But  what  are  we 
to  say  of  these  three  }  Is  he,  by 
virtue  of  them,  entitled  to  the  rank 
and  influence  of  a  great  historian  "i 
What  have  we  a  right  to  demand  of 
an  historian }  First,  surely,  stern 
veracity,  which  implies  not  merely 
knowledge  but  honesty.  An  histo- 
rian stands  in  a  fiduciary  position 
towards  his  readers,  and  if  he  with- 
holds   from    them    important    facts 


CARLYLE.  2T 

likely  to  influence  their  judgment, 
he  is  guilty  of  fraud,  and,  when  jus- 
tice is  done  in  this  world,  will  be 
condemned  to  refund  all  moneys  he 
has  made  by  his  false  professions, 
with  compound  interest.  This  sort 
of  fraud  is  unknown  to  the  law,  but 
to  nobody  else.  *  Let  me  know  the 
facts  ! '  may  well  be  the  agonized  cry 
of  the  student  who  finds  himself 
floating  down  what  Arnold  has  called 
'the  vast  Mississippi  of  falsehood, 
History.'  Secondly  comes  a  catholic 
temper  and  way  of  looking  at  things. 
The  historian  should  be  a  gentleman 
and  possess  a  moral  breadth  of  tem- 
perament. There  should  be  no  bit- 
ter protesting  spirit  about  him.  He 
should  remember  the  world  he  has 
taken  upon  himself  to  write  about  is 
a  large  place,  and  that  nobody  set 
him  up  over  us.  Thirdly,  he  must 
be  a  born  story-teller.  If  he  is  not 
this,  he  has  mistaken  his  vocation. 


22  CARLYLE. 

He  may  be  a  great  philosopher,  a 
useful  editor,  a  profound  scholar,  and 
anything  else  his  friends  like  to  call 
him,  except  a  great  historian.  How 
does  Carlyle  meet  these  require- 
ments ?  His  veracity,  that  is,  his 
laborious  accuracy,  is  admitted  by 
the  only  persons  competent  to  form 
an  opinion,  namely,  independent  in- 
vestigators who  have  followed  in  his 
track  ;  but  what  may  be  called  the 
internal  evidence  of  the  case  also 
supplies  a  strong  proof  of  it.  Carlyle 
was,  as  everyone  knows,  a  hero-" 
worshipper.  It  is  part  of  his  mys- 
ticism. With  him  man,  as  well  as 
God,  is  a  spirit,  either  of  good  or 
evil,  and  as  such  should  be  either 
worshipped  or  reviled.  He  is  never 
himself  till  he  has  discovered  or  in- 
vented a  hero  ;  and,  when  he  has  got 
him,  he  tosses  and  dandles  him  as  a 
mother  her  babe.  This  is  a  terrible 
temptation  to  put  in  the  way  of   an 


CARL  YLE.  23 

historian,  and  few  there  be  who  arc 
found  able  to  resist  it.  How  easy  to 
keejj  back  an  ugly  fact,  sure  to  be  a 
stumbling-block  in  the  way  of  weak 
brethren  !  Carlyle  is  above  suspicion 
in  this  respect.  He  knows  no  reti- 
cence. Nothing  restrains  him  ;  not 
even  the  so-called  proprieties  of  his- 
tory. He  may,  after  his  boisterous 
fashion,  pour  scorn  upon  you  for 
looking  grave,  as  you  read  in  his 
vivid  pages  of  the  reckless  manner 
in  which  too  many  of  his  heroes 
drove  coaches-and-six  through  the 
Ten  Commandments.  As  likely  as 
not  he  will  call  you  a  blockhead,  and 
tell  you  to  close  your  wide  mouth  and 
cease  shrieking.  But,  dear  me !  hard 
words  break  no  bones,  and  it  is  an 
amazing  comfort  to  know  the  facts. 
Is  he  writing  of  Cromwell  .''  —  down 
goes  everything  —  letters,  speeches, 
as  they  were  written,  as  they  were 
delivered.     Few  great  men  are  edit- 


24  CARLYLE. 

ed  after  this  fashion.  Were  they  to 
be  so  —  Luther,  for  example  —  many 
eyes  would  be  opened  very  wide. 
Nor  does  Carlyle  fail  in  comment. 
If  the  Protector  makes  a  somewhat 
distant  allusion  to  the  Barbadoes, 
Carlyle  is  at  your  elbow  to  tell  you  it 
means  his  selling  people  to  work  as 
slaves  in  the  West  Indies.  As  for 
Mirabeau,  'our  wild  Gabriel  Honor^,' 
well !  we  are  told  all  about  him  ;  nor 
is  Frederick  let  off  a  single  absurdity 
or  atrocity.  But  when  we  have  ad- 
mitted the  veracity,  what  are  we  to 
say  of  the  catholic  temper,  the  breadth 
of  temperament,  the  wide  Shake- 
spearian tolerance .-'  Carlyle  ought  to 
have  them  all.  By  nature  he  was 
tolerant  enough  ;  so  true  a  humourist 
could  never  be  a  bigot.  When  his 
war-paint  is  not  on,  a  child  might 
lead  him.  His  judgments  are  gra- 
cious, chivalrous,  tinged  with  a  kindly 
melancholy  and  divine  pity.    But  this 


CARLYLE.  25 

mood  is  never  for  long.  Some  gadfly 
stings  him  :  he  seizes  his  tomahawk 
and  is  off  on  the  trail.  It  must  sor- 
rowfully be  admitted  that  a  long  life 
of  opposition  and  indigestion,  of  fierce 
warfare  with  cooks  and  Philistines, 
spoilt  his  temper,  never  of  the  best, 
and  made  him  too  often  contemptu- 
ous, savage,  unjust.  Mis  language 
then  becomes  unreasonable,  unbear- 
able, bad.  Literature  takes  care  of 
herself.  You  disobey  her  rules  :  well 
and  good,  she  shuts  her  door  in  your 
face  ;  you  plead  your  genius  :  she  re- 
plies, '  Your  temper,'  and  bolts  it. 
Carlyle  has  deliberately  destroyed,  by 
his  own  wilfulness,  the  value  of  a 
great  deal  he  has  written.  It  can 
never  become  classical.  Alas !  that 
this  should  be  true  of  too  many  emi- 
nent Englishmen  of  our  time.  Lan- 
guage such  as  was,  at  one  time,  al- 
most habitual  with  Mr.  Ruskin,  is  a 
national  humiliation,  giving  point  to 


26  CARL  YLE. 

the  Frenchman's  sneer  as  to  our  dis- 
tinguishing literary  characteristic  \)Q.- 
mg'  la  bnitaliie.'  In  Carlyle's  case 
much  must  be  allowed  for  his  rheto- 
ric and  humour.  In  slang  phrase,  he 
always  '  piles  it  on.'  Does  a  book- 
seller misdirect  a  parcel,  he  exclaims, 
*  My  malison  on  all  Blockheadisms 
and  Torpid  Infidelities  of  which  this 
world  is  full.'  Still,  all  allowances 
made,  it  is  a  thousand  pities  ;  and 
one's  thoughts  turn  away  from  this 
stormy  old  man  and  take  refuge  in 
the  quiet  haven  of  the  Oratory  at 
Birmingham,  with  his  great  Protago- 
nist, who,  throughout  an  equally  long 
life  spent  in  painful  controversy,  and 
wielding  weapons  as  terrible  as  Car- 
lyle's own,  has  rarely  forgotten  to  be 
urbane,  and  whose  every  sentence  is 
a  'thing  of  beauty.'  It  must,  then, 
be  owned  that  too  many  of  Carlyle's 
literary  achievements  'lack  a  gracious 
somewhat.'     By 'force   of  his  genius 


CARL  YLE.  27 

he  '  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the 
water ; '  but  then,  Hke  Moses,  '  he 
desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing.' 

Our  third  requirement  was,  it  may 
be  remembered,  the  gift  of  the  story- 
teller. Here  one  is  on  firm  ground. 
Where  is  the  equal  of  the  man  who 
has  told  us  the  story  of  '  The  Dia- 
mond Necklace '  ? 

It  is  the  vogue,  nowadays,  to  sneer 
at  picturesque  writing.  Professor 
Seeley,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  ap- 
pears to  think  that  whilst  politics, 
and,  I  presume  religion,  may  be  made 
as  interesting  as  you  please,  history 
should  be  as  dull  as  possible.  This, 
surely,  is  a  jaundiced  view.  If  there 
is  one  thing  it  is  legitimate  to  make 
more  interesting  than  another,  it  is 
the  varied  record  of  man's  life  upon 
earth.  So  long  as  we  have  human 
hearts  and  await  human  destinies,  so 
long  as  we  are  alive  to  the  pathos, 
the  dignity,  the   comedy   of   human 


28  CARL  YLE. 

life,  SO  long  shall  we  continue  to  rank 
above  the  philosopher,  higher  than 
the  politician,  the  great  artist,  be  he 
called  dramatist  or  historian,  who 
makes  us  conscious  of  the  divine 
movement  of  events,  and  of  our  fa- 
thers who  were  before  us.  Of  course 
we  assume  accuracy  and  labor  in 
our  animated  historian  ;  though,  for 
that  matter,  other  things  being  equal, 
I  prefer  a  lively  liar  to  a  dull  one. 

Carlyle  is  sometimes  as  irresistible 
as  '  The  Campbells  are  Coming,'  or 
'Auld  Lang  Syne.'  He  has  de- 
scribed some  men  and  some  events 
once  and  for  all,  and  so  takes  his 
place  with  Thucydides,  Tacitus  and 
Gibbon.  Pedants  may  try  hard  to 
forget  this,  and  may  in  their  laboured 
nothings  seek  to  ignore  the  author 
of  '  Cromwell '  and  *  The  French  Re- 
volution '  ;  but  as  well  might  the  pe- 
destrian in  Cumberland  or  Inverness 
seek  to  ignore  Helvellyn  or  Ben  Ne- 


CARLYLE.  29 

vis.  Carlyle  is  tJicre,  and  will  re- 
main there,  when  the  pedant  of  to- 
day has  been  superseded  by  the  pe- 
dant of  to-morrow. 

Remembering  all  this,  we  are  apt 
to  forget  his  faults,  his  eccentricities, 
and  vagaries,  his  buffooneries,  his 
too-outrageous  cynicisms  and  his  too- 
intrusive  egotisms,  and  to  ask  our- 
selves —  if  it  be  not  this  man,  who 
is  it  then  to  be  .-*  Macaulay,  answer 
some  ;  and  Macaulay's  claims  are 
not  of  the  sort  to  go  unrecognised  in 
a  world  which  loves  clearness  of  ex- 
pression and  of  view  only  too  well. 
Macaulay's  position  never  admitted 
of  doubt.  We  know  what  to  expect, 
and  we  always  get  it.  It  is  like  the 
old  days  of  W.  G.  Grace's  cricket. 
We  went  to  see  the  leviathan  slog 
for  six,  and  we  saw  it.  We  expected 
him  to  do  it,  and  he  did  it.  So  with 
Macaulay  —  the  good  Whig,  as  he 
takes  up  the  History,  settles  himself 


30  CARL  YLE. 

down  in  his  chair,  and  knows  it  is 
going  to  be  a  bad  time  for  the  Tories. 
Macaulay's  style  —  his  much-praised 
style  —  is  ineffectual  for  the  purpose 
of  telling  the  truth  about  anything. 
It  is  splendid,  but  splendidc  mendax, 
and  in  Macaulay's  case  the  style  was 
the  man.  He  had  enormous  know- 
ledge, and  a  noble  spirit;  his  know- 
ledge enriched  his  style  and  his  spirit 
consecrated  it  to  the  service  of  Lib- 
erty. We  do  well  to  be  proud  of 
Macaulay ;  but  we  must  add  that, 
great  as  was  his  knowledge,  great 
also  was  his  ignorance,  which  was 
none  the  less  ignorance  because  it 
was  wilful  ;  noble  as  was  his  spirit, 
the  range  of  subject  over  which  it 
energized  was  painfully  restricted. 
He  looked  out  upon  the  world,  but, 
behold,  only  the  Whigs  were  good. 
Luther  and  Loyola,  Cromwell  and 
Claverhouse,  Carlyle  and  Newman  — 
they  moved  him  not  ;  their  enthusi- 


CARLYLE.  31 

asms  were  delusions,  and  their  poli- 
tics demonstrable  errors.     Whereas, 
of   Lord    Somers    and    Charles    first 
Earl  Grey  it  is  impossible  to  speak 
without    emotion.      But    the    world 
does  not  belong  to  the  Whigs ;  and 
a  great  historian  must  be  capable  of 
sympathizing  both  with  delusions  and 
demonstrable  errors.     Mr.  Gladstone 
has  commented  with  force  upon  what 
he  calls  Macaulay's   invincible  igno- 
rance, and  further  says   that  to  cer- 
tain  aspects   of   a  case  (particularly 
those  aspects   most   pleasing  to  Mr. 
Gladstone)  Macaulay's  mind  was  her- 
metically sealed.     It  is  difficult  to  re- 
sist these  conclusions  ;    and  it  would  ■ 
appear  no  rash  inference  from  them, 
that  a  man  in  a  state  of   invincible 
ignorance  and  with  a  mind   hermet- 
ically sealed,  whatever  else  he  may 
be  —  orator,     advocate,     statesman, 
journalist,  man  of  letters  —  can  never 
be   a   great   historian.     But,    indeed, 


32  CARL  YLE. 

when  one  remembers  Macaulay's  lim- 
ited range  of  ideas  :  the  common- 
placeness  of  his  morahty,  and  of  his 
descriptions  ;  his  absence  of  humour, 
and  of  pathos  —  for  though  Miss  Mar- 
tineau  says  she  found  one  pathetic 
passage  in  the  History,  I  have  often 
sear  died  for  it  in  vain  ;  and  then 
turns  to  Carlyle  —  to  liis  almost  be- 
wildering affluence  of  thought,  fan- 
cy, feehng,  humour,  pathos  —  his  bit- 
ing pen,  his  scorching  criticism,  his 
world-wide  sympathy  (save  in  certain 
moods)  with  everything  but  the  smug 
commonplace  —  to  prefer  Macaulay 
to  him,  is  like  giving  the  preference 
to  Birket  Foster  over  Salvator  Rosa. 
But  if  it  is  not  Macaulay,  who  is  it 
to  be  ?  Mr.  Hep  worth  Dixon  or  Mr. 
Froude  1  Of  Bishop  Stubbs  and 
Professor  Freeman  it  behoves  every 
ignoramus  to  speak  with  respect. 
Horny-handed  sons  of  toil,  they  are 
worthy  of    their  wage.     Carlyle  has 


CARL  YLE.  33 

somewhere  struck  a  distinction  be- 
tween the  historical  artist  and  the 
historical  artizan.  The  bishop  and 
the  professor  are  historical  artizans ; 
artists  they  are  not  —  and  the  great 
historian  is  a  great  artist. 

England  boasts  two  such  artists. 
Edward  Gibbon  and  Thomas  Carlyle. 
The  elder  historian  may  be  compared 
to  one  of  the  great  Alpine  roadways 

—  sublime  in  its  conception,  heroic 
in  its  execution,  superb  in  its  magni- 
ficent uniformity  of  good  workman- 
ship. The  younger  resembles  one 
of  his  native  streams,  pent  in  at 
times  between  huge  rocks,  and  tor- 
mented into  foam,  and  then  effecting 
its  escape  down  some  precipice,  and 
spreading  into  cool  expanses  below  ; 
but  however  varied  may  be  its  for- 
tunes —  however  startling  its  changes 

—  always  in  motion,  always  in  har- 
mony with  the  scene  around.  Is  it 
gloomy  }     It  is  with  the  gloom  of  the 

3 


34  CARL  YLE. 

thunder-cloud.  Is  it  bright  ?  It  is 
with  the  radiance  of  the  sun. 

It  is  with  some  consternation  that 
I  approach  the  subject  of  Carlyle's 
poHtics.  One  handles  them  as  does 
an  inspector  of  police  a  parcel  re- 
ported to  contain  dynamite.  The 
Latter  -  Day  Pamphlets  might  not 
unfitly  be  labelled  '  Dangerous  Ex- 
plosives.' 

In  this  matter  of  politics  there 
were  two  Carlyles  ;  and,  as  generally 
happens  in  such  cases,  his  last  state 
was  worse  than  his  first.  Up  to 
1843,  he  not  unfairly  might  be  called 
a  Liberal  —  of  uncertain  vote  it  may 
be — a  man  difificult  to  work  with, 
and  impatient  of  discipline,  but  still 
aglow  with  generous  heat ;  full  of 
large-hearted  sympathy  with  the  poor 
and  oppressed,  and  of  intense  hatred 
of  the  cruel  and  shallow  sophistries 
that  then  passed  for  maxims,  almost 
for  axioms,  of  government.     In    the 


CARL  YLE.  35 

year  1819,  when  the  yeomanry  round 
Glasgow  was  called  out  to  keep 
down  some  dreadful  monsters  called 
*  Radicals,'  Carlyle  describes  how  he 
met  an  advocate  of  his  acquaintance 
hurrying  along,  musket  in  hand,  to 
his  drill  on  the  Links.  '  You  should 
have  the  like  of  this,'  said  he,  cheerily 
patting  his  gun.  '  Yes,  was  the  reply, 
'  but  I  haven't  yet  quite  settled  on 
which  side.'  And  when  he  did  make 
his  choice,  on  the  whole  he  chose 
rightly.  The  author  of  that  noble 
pamphlet  '  Chartism,'  published  in 
1840,  was  at  least  once  a  Liberal. 
Let  me  quote  a  passage  that  has 
stirred  to  effort  many  a  generous 
heart  now  cold  in  death :  'Who  would 
'  suppose  that  Education  were  a  thing 
'which  had  to  be  advocated  on  the 
'ground  of  local  expediency,  or  in- 
'  deed  on  any  ground  .''  As  if  it  stood 
'not  on  the  basis  of  an  everlasting 
'  duty,  as  a  prime  necessity  of  man  !   It 


36  CARL  YLE. 

'  is  a  thing  that  should  need  no  advo- 

*  eating ;    much    as    it   does  actually 

*  need.  To  impart  the  gift  of  think- 
*ing  to  those  who  cannot  think,  and 
'yet  who  could  in  that  case  think  : 

*  this,  one  would  imagine,  was  the  first 
'function  a  government  had  to  set 
'about  discharging.  Were  it  not  a 
'  cruel  thing  to  see,  in  any  province  of 
'  an  empire,  the  inhabitants  living  all 
'  mutilated  in  their  limbs,  each  strong 
'man  with  his  right  arm  lamed  ?  How 
'much  crueller  to  find  the  strong  soul 

*  with  its  eyes  still  sealed  —  its  eyes 
'extinct,  so  that  it  sees  not!  Light 
'has  come  into  the  world  ;  but  to  this 
'  poor  peasant  it  has  come  in  vain. 
'  For  six  thousand  years  the  sons  of 
'  Adam,  in  sleepless  effort,  have  been 
'  devising,  doing,  discovering  ;  in  mys- 
'  terious,  infinite,  indissoluble  com- 
'munion,  warring,    a   little   band   of 

*  brothers,  against  the  black  empire 
'  of  necessity  and  night ;  they  have 


CARLYLE.  37 

*  accomplished  such  a  conquest  and 
'conquests  ;  and  to  this  man  it  is  all 
*as  if  it  had  not  been.  The  four- 
*and-twenty  letters  of  the  alj^habet 
'are  still  runic  enigmas  to  him.  He 
'passes  by  on  the  other  side;  and 
'that  great  spiritual  kingdom,  the  toil- 
'  won  conquest  of  his  own  brothers, 

*  all  that  his  brothers  have  conquered, 
'is  a  thing  not  extant  for  him.     An 

*  invisible  empire  ;  he  knows  it  not 
'  —  suspects  it  not.  And  is  not  this 
'  his  withal ;  the  conquest  of  his  own 

*  brothers,  the  lawfully  acquired  pos- 

*  session  of  all  men  .''  Baleful  enchant- 
'  ment  lies  over  him,  from  generation 
'to  generation;  he  knows  not  that 
'such  an  empire  is  his  —  that  such  an 
'empire  is  his  at  all  .  .  .  Heavier 
'wrong  is  not  done  under  the  sun.  It 
'  lasts  from  year  to  year,  from  century 
'  to  century  ;  the  blinded  sire  slaves 
'  himself  out,  and  leaves  a  blinded  son ; 
'  and  men,  made  in  the  image  of  God, 


38  CARL  YLE. 

'continue  as  two-legged  beasts  of 
'  labour :  and  in  the  largest  empire 
'  of  the  world  it  is  a  debate  whether 
'a  small  fraction  of  the  revenue  of 
'one  day  shall,  after  thirteen  cen- 
'  turies,  be  laid  out  on  it,  or  not  laid 
'out  on  it.  Have  we  governors  ? 
'  Have  we  teachers  ?  Have  we  had 
'a  Church  these  thirteen  hundred 
'  years  ?   What  is  an  overseer  of  souls, 

*  an  archoverseer,  archiepiscopus  ?  Is 
'he  something?  If  so,  let  him  lay 
'  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  say  what 
'  thing  !  ' 

Nor  was  the  man  who  in  1843 
wrote  as  follows  altogether  at  sea  in 
politics  : 

'Of  Time  Bill,  Factory  Bill,    and 

*  other  such  Bills,  the  present  editor 
'has  no  authority  to  speak.  He 
'  knows  not,  it  is  for  others  than  he 
'  to  know,  in  what  specific  ways  it 
'  may  be  feasible  to  interfere  with 
'  legislation  between  the  workers  and 


CARL  YLE.  39 

'  the  master-workers  —  knows  only 
'  and  sees  that  legislative  interference, 

*  and  interferences  not  a  few,  are  in- 
'  dispensable.  Nay,  interference  has 
'  begun  ;  there  are  already  factory  in- 
'spectors.      Perhaps  there  might  be 

*  mine  inspectors  too.  Might  there 
'  not  be  furrow-field  inspectors  withal, 
'  to  ascertain  how,  on  'js.  6d.  a  week, 
'a  human  family  does  live.''     Again, 

*  are  not  sanitary  regulations  possible 
'for  a  legislature.''  Baths,  free  air, 
'  a  wholesome  temperature,  ceilings 
'  twenty  feet  high,  might  be  ordained 
'by  Act  of  Parliament  in  all  establish- 
'  ments  licensed  as  mills.  There  are 
'  such  mills  already  extant  —  honour 
'to  the  builders  of  them.  The  Icgis- 
'  lature  can  say  to  others,  "  Go  you 
'  "  and  do  likewise  —  better  if  you 
'"can."  ' 

By  no  means  a  bad  programme 
for  1843  ;  ^i^d  3-  good  part  of  it  has 
been  carried  out,  but  with  next  to  no 
aid  from  Carlyle. 


40  CARL  YLE. 

The  Radical  party  has  struggled 
on  as  best  it  might,  without  the 
author  of  '  Chartism  '  and  *  The 
French  Revolution '  — 

'  They  have  marched  prospering,  not  through  his 

presence ; 
Songs  have  inspired  them,  not  from  his  lyre  ; ' 

and  it  is  no  party  spirit  that  leads 
one  to  regret  the  change  of  mind 
which  prevented  the  later  public  life 
of  this  great  man,  and  now  the  mem- 
ory of  it,  from  being  enriched  with 
something  better  than  a  five-pound 
note  for  Governor  Eyre. 

But  it  could  not  be  helped.  What 
brought  about  the  rupture  was  his 
losing  faith  in  the  ultimate  destiny 
of  man  upon  earth.  No  more  terrible 
loss  can  be  sustained.  It  is  of  both 
heart  and  hope.  He  fell  back  upon 
heated  visions  of  heaven-sent  heroes, 
devoting  their  early  days  for  the  most 
part  to  hoodwinking  the  people,  and 
their  latter  ones,  more  heroically,  to 
shooting  them. 


CARL  YLE.  41 

But  it  is  foolish  to  quarrel  with 
results,  and  we  may  learn  something 
even  from  the  later  Carlylc.  We  lay 
down  John  Bright's  Reform  Speeches, 
and  take  up  Carlyle  and  light  upon 
a  passage  like  this :  '  Inexpressibly 
delirious  seems  to  me  the  puddle  of 
Parliament  and  public  upon  what  it 
calls  the  Reform  Measure,  that  is  to 
say,  the  calling  in  of  new  supplies  of 
blockheadism,  gullibility,  bribability, 
amenability  to  beer  and  balderdash, 
by  way  of  amending  the  woes  we 
have  had  from  previous  supplies  of 
that  bad  article.'  This  view  must  be 
accounted  for  as  well  as  Mr.  Bright's. 
We  shall  do  well  to  remember,  with 
Carlyle,  that  the  best  of  all  Reform 
Bills  is  that  which  each  citizen  passes 
in  his  own  breast,  where  it  is  pretty 
sure  to  meet  with  strenuous  opposi- 
tion. The  reform  of  ourselves  is  no 
doubt  an  heroic  measure  never  to  be 
overlooked,   and,    in  the  face   of   ac- 


42  CARL  YLE. 

cusations  of  gullibility,  bribability, 
amenability  to  beer  and  balderdash, 
our  poor  humanity  can  only  stand 
abashed,  and  feebly  demur  to  the  bad 
English  in  which  the  charges  are 
conveyed.  But  we  can't  all  lose 
hope.  We  remember  Sir  David 
Ramsay's  reply  to  Lord  Rea,  once 
quoted  by  Carlyle  himself.  Then 
said  his  lordship  :  '  Well,  God  mend 
all.'  '  Nay,  by  God,  Donald,  we  must 
help  Him  to  mend  it ! '  It  is  idle  to 
stand  gaping  at  the  heavens,  waiting 
to  feel  the  thong  of  some  hero  of 
questionable  morals  and  robust  con- 
science ;  and  therefore,  unless  Reform 
Bills  can  be  shown  to  have  checked 
purity  of  election,  to  have  increased 
the  stupidity  of  electors,  and  gen- 
erally to  have  promoted  corruption 

—  which  notoriously   they  have  not 

—  we  may  allow  Carlyle  to  make  his 
exit  '  swearing,'  and  regard  their  pre- 
sence  in    the    Statute  Book,    if   not 


CARLYLE.  43 

with    rapture,    at    least,    with    equa- 
nimity. 

But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
the  battle  is  still  raging — the  issue 
is  still  uncertain.  Mr.  Froude  is 
still  free  to  assert  that  the  'post-mor- 
tem '  will  prove  Carlyle  was  right. 
His  political  sagacity  no  reader  of 
'  Frederick '  can  deny  ;  his  insight 
into  hidden  causes  and  far-away  ef- 
fects was  keen  beyond  precedent  — 
nothing  he  ever  said  deserves  con- 
tempt, though  it  may  merit  anger. 
If  we  would  escape  his  conclusion, 
we  must  not  altogether  disregard  his 
premises.  Bankruptcy  and  death  are 
the  final  heirs  of  imposture  and 
make-believes.  The  old  faiths  and 
forms  are  worn  too  threadbare  by  a 
thousand  disputations  to  bear  the 
burden  of  the  new  democracy,  which, 
if  it  is  not  merely  to  win  the  battle 
but  to  hold  the  country,  must  be 
ready  with  new  faiths  and  forms  of 


44  CARL  YLE. 

her  own.  They  are  within  her  reach 
if  she  but  knew  it ;  they  lie  to  her 
hand :  surely  they  will  not  escape 
her  grasp !  If  they  do  not,  then,  in 
the  glad  day  when  worship  is  once 
more  restored  to  man,  he  will  with 
becoming  generosity  forget  much 
that  Carlyle  has  written,  and  remem- 
bering more,  rank  him  amongst  the 
prophets  of  humanity. 

Carlyle's  poetry  can  only  be  exhi- 
bited in  long  extracts,  which  would 
be  here  out  of  place,  and  might  ex- 
cite controversy  as  to  the  meaning 
of  words,  and  draw  down  upon  me 
the  measureless  malice  of  the  metri- 
cists.  There  are,  however,  passages 
in  'Sartor  Resartus'  and  the  'French 
Revolution '  which  have  long  ap- 
peared to  me  to  be  the  sublimest 
poetry  of  the  century ;  and  it  was 
therefore  with  great  pleasure  that  I 
found  Mr.  Justice  Stephen,  in  his 
book  on  '  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fra- 


CAKL  YLE.  45 

ternity/  introducing  a  quotation  from 
the  8th  chapter  of  the    3rd    book  of 

*  Sartor  Resartus,'  with  the  remark 
that  '  it  is  perhaps  the  most  memora- 
ble utterance  of  the  greatest  poet  of 
the  age.' 

As  for  Carlyle's  religion,  it  may 
be  said  he  had  none,  inasmuch  as 
he  expounded  no  creed  and  put  his 
name  to  no  confession.  This  is  the 
pedantry  of  the  schools.  He  taught 
us  religion,  as  cold  water  and  fresh 
air  teach  us  health,  by  rendering  the 
conditions  of  disease  well  nigh  im- 
possible. For  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury, with  superhuman  energy,  he 
struggled  to  establish  the  basis  of  all 
religions,  '  reverence  and  godly  fear.' 

*  Love  not  pleasure,  love  God  ;  this 
is  the  everlasting  Yea.' 

One's  remarks  might  here  natu- 
rally come  to  an  end,  with  a  word  or 
two  of  hearty  praise  of  the  brave 
course   of  life   led   by  the   man  who 


46  CARLYLE. 

awhile  back  stood  the  acknowledged 
head  of  English  letters.  But  the 
present  time  is  not  the  happiest  for 
a  panegyric  on  Carlyle.  It  would  be 
in  vain  to  deny  that  the  brightness 
of  his  reputation  underwent  an 
eclipse,  visible  everywhere,  by  the 
publication  of  his  '  Reminiscences.' 
They  surprised  most  of  us,  pained 
not  a  few,  and  hugely  delighted  that 
ghastly  crew,  the  wreckers  of  huma- 
nity, who  are  never  so  happy  as  when 
employed  in  pulling  down  great  rep- 
utations to  their  own  miserable  lev- 
els. When  these  'baleful  creatures,' 
as  Carlyle  would  have  called  them, 
have  lit  upon  any  passage  indicative 
of  conceit  or  jealousy  or  spite,  they 
have  fastened  upon  it  and  screamed 
over  it,  with  a  pleasure  but  ill-con- 
cealed and  with  a  horror  but  ill- 
feigned.  'Behold,'  they  exclaim, 
'your  hero  robbed  of  the  nimbus  his 
inflated  style  cast  around  him  —  this 


CARL  YLE.  47 

preacher  and  fault-finder  reduced  to 
his  principal  parts  :  and  lo  !  the  main 
ingredient  is  most  unmistakably 
"bile!"' 

The  critic,  however,  has  nought 
to  do  cither  with  the  sighs  of  the 
sorrowful,  '  mourning  when  a  hero 
falls,'  or  with  the  scorn  of  the  ma- 
licious, rejoicing,  as  did  Bunyan's 
Jur}^man,  Mr.  Live  -  loose,  when 
Faithful  was  condemned  to  die  :  '  I 
could  never  endure  him,  for  he 
would  always  be  condemning  my 
way.' 

The  critic's  task  is  to  consider  the 
book  itself,  /.  e.,  the  nature  of  its 
contents,  and  how  it  came  to  be  writ- 
ten at  all. 

When  this  has  been  done,  there 
will  not  be  found  much  demanding 
moral  censure ;  whilst  the  reader 
will  note  with  delight,  applied  to  the 
trifling  concerns  of  life,  those  extra- 
ordinary   gifts    of    observation    and 


48  CARL  YLE. 

apprehension  which  have  so  often 
charmed  him  in  the  pages  of  history 
and  biography. 

These  peccant  volumes  contain 
but  four  sketches  :  one  of  his  father, 
written  in  1832  ;  the  other  three, 
of  Edward  Irving,  Lord  Jeffrey, 
and  Mrs.  Carlyle,  all  written  after 
the  death  of  the  last  -  named,  in 
1866. 

The  only  fault  that  has  been  found 
with  the  first  sketch  is,  that  in  it 
Carlyle  hazards  the  assertion  that 
Scotland  does  not  now  contain  his 
■father's  like.  It  ought  surely  to  be 
possible  to  dispute  this  opinion  with- 
out exhibiting  emotion.  To  think 
well  of  their  forbears  is  one  of  the 
few  weaknesses  of  Scotchmen.  This 
sketch,  as  a  whole,  must  be  carried 
to  Carlyle' s  credit,  and  is  a  perma- 
nent addition  to  literature.  It  is 
pious,  after  the  high  Roman  fashion. 
It  satisfies  our  finest  sense  of  the  fit 


CARL  YLE.  49 

and  jiroper.  Just  exactly  so  should 
a  literate  son  write  of  an  illiterate 
peasant  father.  How  immeasurable 
seems  the  distance  between  the  man 
from  whom  proceeded  the  thirty-four 
volumes  we  have  been  writing  about 
and  the  Calvinistic  mason  who  didn't 
even  know  his  Burns  !  —  and  yet  here 
we  find  the  whole  distance  spanned 
by  filial  love. 

The  sketch  of  Lord  Jeffrey  is  in- 
imitable. One  was  getting  tired  of 
Jeffrey,  and  prepared  to  give  him  the 
go  -  by,  when  Carlyle  creates  him 
afresh,  and,  for  the  first  time,  we  see 
the  bright  little  man  bewitching  us 
by  what  he  is,  disappointing  us  by 
what  he  is  not.  The  spiteful  remarks 
the  sketch  contains  may  be  consid- 
ered, along  w4th  those  of  the  same 
nature  to  be  found  only  too  plenti- 
fully in  the  remaining  two  papers. 

After  careful  consideration  of  the 
worst    of    these    remarks,   Mrs.    Oli- 

4 


50  CARL  YLE. 

phant's  explanation  seems  the  true 
one ;  they  are  most  of  them  spark- 
ling bits  of  Mrs,  Carlyle's  conver- 
sation. She,  happily  for  herself,  had 
a  lively  wit,  and,  perhaps  not  so  hap- 
pily, a  biting  tongue,  and  was,  as 
Carlyle  tells  us,  accustomed  to  make 
him  laugh,  as  they  drove  home  to- 
gether from  London  crushes,  by 
far  from  genial  observations  on 
her  fellow-creatures,  little  recking  — 
how  should  she  ?  —  that  what  was  so 
lightly  uttered  was  being  engraven 
on  the  tablets  of  the  most  marvellous 
of  memories,  and  was  destined  long 
afterwards  to  be  written  down  in 
grim  earnest  by  a  half-frenzied  old 
man,  and  printed,  in  cold  blood,  by 
an  English  gentleman. 

The  horrible  description  of  Mrs. 
Irving's  personal  appearance,  and  the 
other  stories  of  the  same  connection, 
are  recognised  by  Mrs.  Oliphant  as 
in  substance   Mrs.  Carlyle's  ;    whilst 


CAKLYLE.  51 

the  malicious  account  of  Mrs.  Basil 
Montague's  head-dress  is  attributed 
by  Carlyle  himself  to  his  wife.  Still, 
after  dividing  the  total,  there  is  a 
good  helping  for  each,  and  blame 
would  justly  be  Carlyle's  due  if  we 
did  not  remember,  as  we  are  bound 
to  do,  that,  interesting  as  these  three 
sketches  are,  their  interest  is  patho- 
logical, and  ought  never  to  have  been 
given  us,  Mr.  Froude  should  have 
read  them  in  tears,  and  burnt  them 
in  fire.  There  is  nothing  surprising 
in  the  state  of  mind  which  produced 
them.  They  are  easily  accounted  for 
by  our  sorrow-laden  experience.  It 
is  a  familiar  feeling  which  prompts  a 
man,  suddenly  bereft  of  one  whom  he 
alone  really  knew  and  loved,  to  turn 
in  his  fierce  indignation  upon  the 
world,  and  deride  its  idols  whom  all 
are  praising,  and  which  yet  to  him 
seem  ugly  by  the  side  of  one  of  whom 
no  one  speaks.     To  be  angry  with 


52  CARL  YLE. 

such  a  sentence  as  '  scribbling  Sands 
and  Eliots,  not  fit  to  compare  with 
my  incomparable  Jeannie,'  is  at  once 
inhuman  and  ridiculous.  This  is  the 
language  of  the  heart,  not  of  the  head. 
It  is  no  more  criticism  than  is  the 
trumpeting  of  a  wounded  elephant 
zoology. 

Happy  is  the  man  who  at  such  a 
time  holds  both  peace  and  pen  ;  but 
unhapi^iest  of  all  is  he  who,  having 
dipped  his  sorrow  into  ink,  entrusts 
the  manuscript  to  a  romantic  histo- 
rian. 

The  two  volumes  of  the  '  Life,' 
and  the  three  volumes  of  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle's  '  Correspondence,'  unfortunate- 
ly did  not  pour  oil  upon  the  troubled 
waters.  The  partizanship  they  evoked 
was  positively  indecent.  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle  had  her  troubles  and  her  sorrows, 
as  have  most  women  who  live  under 
the  same  roof  with  a  man  of  creative 
genius  ;  but  of  one  thing  we  may  be 


CARL  YLE.  53 

quite  sure,  that  she  would  have  been 
the  first,  to  use  her  own  expressive 
language,  to  require  God  '  particu- 
larly to  damn'  her  impertinent  sym- 
pathizers. As  for  Mr.  Froude,  he 
may  yet  discover  his  Nemesis  in  the 
spirit  of  an  angry  woman  whose 
privacy  he  has  invaded,  and  whose 
diary  he  has  most  wantonly  pub- 
lished. 

These  dark  clouds  are  ephemeral. 
They  will  roll  away,  and  we  shall 
once  more  gladly  recognise  the  line- 
aments of  an  essentially  lofty  cha- 
racter, of  one  who,  though  a  man  of 
genius  and  of  letters,  neither  out- 
raged society  nor  stooped  to  it  ;  was 
neither  a  rebel  nor  a  slave  ;  who  in 
poverty  scorned  wealth  ;  who  never 
mistook  popularity  for  fame  ;  but 
from  the  first  assumed,  and  through- 
out maintained,  the  proud  attitude  of 
one  whose  duty  it  was  to  teach  and 
not  to  tickle  mankind. 


54  CARL  YLE. 

Brother- dunces,  lend  me  your  ears  ! 
not  to  crop,  but  that  I  may  whisper 
into  their  furry  depths :  *  Do  not 
quarrel  with  genius.  We  have  none 
ourselves,  and  yet  are  so  constituted 
that  we  cannot  live  without  it.' 


ON  THE  ALLEGED  OBSCU- 
RITY OF  MR.  BROWNING'S 
POETRY. 

'  The  sanity  of  true  genius '  was  a 
happy  phrase  of  Charles  Lamb's. 
Our  greatest  poets  were  our  sanest 
men.  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Shake- 
speare, Milton,  and  Wordsworth 
might  have  defied  even  a  mad  doc- 
tor to  prove  his  worst. 

To  extol  sanity  ought  to  be  unne- 
cessary in  an  age  which  boasts  its 
realism  ;  but  yet  it  may  be  doubted 
whether,  if  the  author  of  the  'phrase 
just  quoted  were  to  be  allowed  once 
more  to  visit  the  world  he  loved  so 
well  and  left  so  reluctantly,  and  could 
be  induced  to  forswear  his  Elizabeth- 
ans and  devote  himself  to  the  litera- 


5G         MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

ture  of  the  day,  he  would  find  many- 
books  which  his  fine  critical  facul- 
ty would  allow  him  to  pronounce 
'healthy,'  as  he  once  pronounced 
'John  Buncle  '  to  be  in  the  presence 
of  a  Scotchman,  who  could  not  for 
the  life  of  him  understand  how  a 
book  could  properly  be  said  to  enjoy 
either  good  or  bad  health. 

But,  however  this  may  be,  this 
much  is  certain,  that  lucidity  is  one 
of  the  chief  characteristics  of  sanity. 
A  sane  man  ought  not  to  be  unin- 
telligible. Lucidity  is  good  every- 
where, for  all  time  and  in  all  things, 
in  a  letter,  in  a  speech,  in  a  book,  in 
a  poem.  Lucidity  is  not  simplicity. 
A  lucid  poem  is  not  necessarily  an 
easy  one.  A  great  poet  may  tax  our 
brains,  but  he  ought  not  to  puzzle 
our  wits.  We  may  often  have  to  ask 
in  Humility,  What  does  he  mean } 
but  not  in  despair,  What  can  he 
mean  } 


MR.   BROWNING'S  POETRY.         57 

Dreamy  and  inconclusive  the  poet 
sometimes,  nay,  often,  cannot  help 
being,  for  dreaminess  and  in  conclu- 
siveness are  conditions  of  thought 
when  dwelling  on  the  very  subjects 
that  most  demand  poetical  treat- 
ment. 

IMisty,  therefore,  the  poet  has  our 
kind  permission  sometimes  to  be ; 
but  muddy,  never !  A  great  poet, 
like  a  great  peak,  must  sometimes 
be  allowed  to  have  his  head  in  the 
clouds,  and  to  disappoint  us  of  the 
wide  prospect  we  had  hoped  to  gain ; 
but  the  clouds  which  envelop  him 
must  be  attracted  to,  and  not  made 
by  him. 

In  a  sentence,  though  the  poet  may 
give  expression  to  what  Wordsworth 
has  called  '  the  heavy  and  the  weary 
weight  of  all  this  unintelligible  world,' 
we,  the  much  -  enduring  public  who 
have  to  read  his  poems,  are  entitled 
to  demand  that    the  unintelligibility 


58         MR.   BROWNING'S  POETRY. 

of  which  we  are  made  to  feel  the 
weight,  should  be  all  of  it  the  world's, 
and  none  of  it  merely  the  poet's. 

We  should  not  have  ventured  to 
introduce  our  subject  with  such  very 
general  and  undeniable  observations, 
had  not  experience  taught  us  that 
the  best  way  of  introducing  any  sub- 
ject is  by  a  string  of  platitudes,  deliv- 
ered after  an  oracular  fashion.  They 
arouse  attention,  without  exhausting 
it,  and  afford  the  pleasant  sensation 
of  thinking,  without  any  of  the 
trouble  of  thought.  But,  the  subject 
once  introduced,  it  becomes  neces- 
sary to  proceed  with  it. 

In  considering  whether  a  poet  is 
intelligible  and  lucid,  we  ought  not 
to  grope  and  grub  about  his  work 
in  search  of  obscurities  and  oddities, 
but  should,  in  the  first  instance  at 
all  events,  attempt  to  regard  his 
whole  scope  and  range ;  to  form 
some  estimate,  if  we  can,  of  his  gen- 


MR.  BROWNING'S  FOE  TRY.        59 

eral  purport  and  effect,  asking  our- 
selves, for  this  purpose,  such  ques- 
tions as  these  :  How  are  we  the  bet- 
ter for  him  ?  Has  he  quickened  any 
passion,  lightened  any  burden,  puri- 
fied any  taste?  Does  he  play  any 
real  part  in  our  lives  ?  When  we  are 
in  love,  do  we  whisper  him  in  our 
lady's  ear  ?  When  we  sorrow,  does 
he  case  our  pain  ?  Can  he  calm  the 
strife  of  mental  conflict  ?  Has  he 
had  anything  to  say,  which  wasn't 
twaddle,  on  those  subjects  which, 
elude  analysis  as  they  may,  and  defy 
demonstration  as  they  do,  .are  yet 
alone  of  perennial  interest  — 

'  On  man.  on  nature,  and  on  human  life,' 

on  the  pathos  of  our  situation,  look- 
ing back  on  to  the  irrevocable  and 
forward  to  the  unknown  ?  If  a  poet 
has  said,  or  done,  or  been  any  of 
these  things  to  an  appreciable  ex- 
tent, to  charge  him  with  obscurity  is 
both  folly  and  ingratitude. 


6o         MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

But  the  subject  may  be  pursued 
further,  and  one  may  b"e  called  upon 
to  investigate  this  charge  with  refe- 
rence to  particular  books  or  poems. 
In  Browning's  case  this  fairly  may  be 
done  ;  and  then  another  crop  of  ques- 
tions arises,  such  as  :  What  is  the 
book  about,  i.  c,  with  what  subject 
does  it  deal,  and  what  method  of 
dealing  does  it  employ  ?  Is  it  didac- 
tical, analytical,  or  purely  narrative  ? 
Is  it  content  to  describe,  or  does  it 
aspire  to  explain  ?  In  common  fair- 
ness these  questions  must  be  asked 
and  answered,  before  we  heave  our 
critical  half-bricks  at  strange  poets. 
One  task  is  of  necessity  more  diffi- 
cult than  another.  Students  of  ge- 
ometry, who  have  pushed  their  re- 
searches into  that  fascinating  science 
so  far  as  the  fifth  proposition  of  the 
first  book,  commonly  called  the  Poiis 
Asinoriim  (though  now  that  so  many 
ladies  read   Euclid,  it  ought,  in  com- 


MR.  BROWNING'S  POETRY.        6i 

mon  justice  to  them,  to  be  at  least 
sometimes  called  the  Pons  Asiuartim), 
will  agree  that  though  it  may  be  more 
difficult  to  prove  that  the  angles  at 
the  base  of  an  isosceles  triangle  are 
equal,  and  that  if  the  equal  sides  be 
produced,  the  angles  on  the  other 
side  of  the  base  shall  be  equal,  than 
it  was  to  describe  an  equilateral 
triangle  on  a  given  finite  straight 
line  ;  yet  no  one  but  an  ass  would  say 
that  the  fifth  proposition  was  one 
whit  less  intelligible  than  the  first. 
When  we  consider  Mr.  Browning  in 
his  later  writings,  it  will  be  useful  to 
bear  this  distinction  in  mind. 

Our  first  duty,  then,  is  to  consider 
Mr.  Browning  in  his  whole  scope  and 
range,  or,  in  a  word,  generally.  This 
is  a  task  of  such  dimensions  and 
difficulty  as,  in  the  language  of  joint- 
stock  prospectuses, '  to  transcend  indi- 
vidual enterprise,'  and  consequently, 
as  we  all  know,  a  company  has  been 


62         MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

recently  floated,  or  a  society  esta- 
blished, having  Mr.  Browning  for  its 
principal  object.  It  has  a  president, 
two  secretaries,  male  and  female,  and 
a  treasurer.  You  pay  a  guinea,  and 
you  become  a  member.  A  suitable 
reduction  is,  I  believe,  made  in  the 
unlikely  event  of  all  the  members  of 
one  family  flocking  to  be  enrolled. 
The  existence  of  this  society  is  a 
great  relief,  for  it  enables  us  to  deal 
with  our  unwieldy  theme  in  a  light- 
hearted  manner,  and  to  refer  those 
who  have  a  passion  for  solid  informa- 
tion and  profound  philosophy  to  the 
printed  transactions  of  this  learned 
society,  which,  lest  we  should  forget 
all  about  it,  we  at  once  do. 

When  you  are  viewing  a  poet  gen- 
erally, as  is  our  present  plight,  the 
first  question  is :  When  was  he  born } 
The  second,  When  did  he  (to  use  a 
favourite  phrase  of  the  last  century, 
now  in  disuse)  —  When  did  he  com- 


MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY.        d^ 

mencc  author  ?  The  third,  How  long 
did  he  keep  at  it  ?  The  fourth,  How 
much  has  he  written  ?  And  the  fifth 
may  perhaps  be  best  expressed  in 
the  words  of  Southey's  little  Peter- 
kin  : 

*  "  What  good  came  of  it  all  at  last  ?  " 
Quoth'little  Peterkin.' 

Mr.  Browning  was  born  in  i8r2; 
he  commenced  author  with  the  frag- 
ment called  '  Pauline,'  published  in 
1833.  He  is  still  writing,  and  his 
works,  as  they  stand  upon  my  shelves 
—  for  editions  vary — number  twen- 
ty-three volumes.  Little  Peterkin's 
question  is  not  so  easily  answered  ; 
but,  postponing  it  for  a  moment,  the 
answers  to  the  other  four  show  that 
we  have  to  deal  with  a  poet,  more 
than  seventy  years  old,  who  has  been 
writing  for  half  a  century,  and  who 
has  filled  twenty-three  volumes.  The 
Browning  Society  at  all  events  has 
assets.     The  way  I  propose   to  deal 


64         MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

with  this  literary  mass  is  to  divide  it 
in  two,  taking  the  year  1864  as  the 
line  of  cleavage.  In  that  year  the 
volume  called  '  Dramatis  Personae ' 
was  published,  and  then  nothing  hap- 
pened till  the  year  1868,  when  our 
poet  presented  the  astonished  Eng- 
lish language  with  the  four  volumes 
and  the  21,116  lines  called  'The  Ring 
and  the  Book,'  a  poem  which  it  may 
be  stated,  for  the  benefit  of  that  large, 
increasing,  and  highly  interesting 
class  of  persons  who  prefer  statistics 
to  poetry,  is  longer  than  Pope's  *  Ho- 
mer's Iliad'  by  exactly  2,171  lines. 
We  thus  begin  with  '  Pauline '  in 
1833,  and  end  with  'Dramatis  Per- 
sonae' in  1864.  We  then  begin  again 
with  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book,'  in 
1868  ;  but  when  or  where  we  shall 
end  cannot  be  stated.  '  Sordello,' 
published  in  1840,  is  better  treated 
apart,  and  is  therefore  excepted  from 
the  first  period,  to  which  chronolog- 
ically it  belongs. 


MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY.         65 

Looking  then  at  the  first  period, 
we  find  in  its  front  eight  plays  : 

I.  '  Strafford,'  written  in  1836, 
when  its  author  was  twenty -four 
years  old,  and  put  upon  the  boards 
of  Covent  Garden  Theatre  on  the 
1st  of  May,  1837,  Macready  playing 
Strafford,  and  Miss  Helen  Faucit 
Lady  Carlisle.  It  was  received  with 
much  enthusiasm  ;  but  the  company 
was  rebellious  and  the  manager  bank- 
rupt ;  and  after  running  five  nights, 
the  man  who  played  Pym  threw  up 
his  part,  and  the  theatre  was  closed. 

2.  '  Pippa  Passes.' 

3.  '  King  Victor  and  King  Charles.' 

4.  '  The  Return  of  the  Druses.' 

5.  'A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.' 
This   beautiful    and    pathetic    play 

was  put  on  the  stage  of  Drury  Lane 
on  the  nth  of  February,  1843,  with 
Phelps  as  Lord  Tresham,  Miss  Helen 
Faucit  as  Mildred  Tresham,  and  Mrs. 
Stirling,  still  known  to  us  all,  as 
5 


66         MR.  BROWNING'S  POETRY. 

Guendolen.  It  was  a  brilliant  suc- 
cess. Mr.  Browning  was  in  the 
stage-box  ;  and  if  it  is  any  satisfac- 
tion for  a  poet  to  hear  a  crowded 
house  cry  '  Author,  author  ! '  that  sat- 
isfaction has  belonged  to  Mr.  Brown- 
ing. The  play  ran  several  nights  ; 
and  was  only  stopped  because  one 
of  Mr.  Macready's  bankruptcies  hap- 
pened just  then  to  intervene.  It  was 
afterwards  revived  by  Mr.  Phelps, 
during  his  '  memorable  management ' 
of  Sadlers'  Wells. 

6,  '  Colombe's  Birthday.'  Miss 
Helen  Faucit  put  this  upon  the  stage 
in  1852,  when  it  was  reckoned  a  suc- 
cess. 

/.  '  Luria.' 

8.   'A  Soul's  Tragedy.' 

To  call  any  of  these  plays  unintel- 
ligible is  ridiculous  ;  and  nobody  who 
has  ever  read  them  ever  did,  and  why 
people  who  have  not  read  them  should 
abuse  them  is  hard  to  see.     Were  so- 


MK.   BKOWXING'S  POETRY.         67 

ciety  put  upon  its  oath,  we  should  be 
surprised  to  find  how  many  people 
in  high  places  have  not  read  '  All's 
Well  that  Ends  Well,'  or  '  Timon  of 
Athens  ; '  but  they  don't  go  about 
saying  these  plays  are  unintelligi- 
ble. Like  wise  folk,  they  pretend  to 
have  road  them,  and  say  nothing.  In 
Browning's  case  they  are  spared  the 
hypocrisy.  No  one  need  pretend  to 
have  read  '  A  Soul's  Tragedy  ; '  and 
it  seems,  therefore,  inexcusable  for 
anyone  to  assert  that  one  of  the  plain- 
est, most  pointed,  and  piquant  bits 
of  writing  in  the  language  is  unintel- 
ligible. But  surely  something  more 
may  be  truthfully  said  of  these  plays 
than  that  they  are  comprehensible. 
First  of  all,  they  are  plays,  and  not 
works  —  like  the  dropsical  dramas  of 
Sir  Henry  Taylor  and  Mr.  Swinburne. 
Some  of  them  have  stood  the  ordeal 
of  actual  representation  ;  and  though 
it  would  be  absurd   to  pretend  that 


68         MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

they  met  with  that  overwhehning 
measure  of  success  our  critical  age 
has  reserved  for  such  dramatists  as 
the  late  Lord  Lytton,  the  author  of 
'  Money,'  the  late  Tom  Taylor,  the 
author  of  '  The  Overland  Route,'  the 
late  Mr.  Robertson,  the  author  of 
'  Caste,'  Mr.  H.  Byron,  the  author  of 
'  Our  Boys,'  Mr.  Wills,  the  author  of 
*  Charles  I.,'  Mr.  Burnand,  the  author 
of  '  The  Colonel,'  and  Mr.  Gilbert, 
the  author  of  so  much  that  is  great 
and  glorious  in  our  national  drama  ; 
at  all  events  they  proved  themselves 
able  to  arrest  and  retain  the  atten- 
tion of  ver}^  ordinary  audiences.  But 
who  can  deny  dignity  and  even  gran- 
deur to  *  Luria,'  or  withhold  the  meed 
of  a  melodious  tear  from  '  Mildred 
Tresham  ' }  What  action  of  what 
play  is  more  happily  conceived  or 
better  rendered  than  that  of  '  Pippa 
Passes ' .''  —  where  innocence  and  its 
reverse,  tender  love  and  violent  pas- 


MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY.        69 

sion,  arc  presented  with  emphasis, 
and  yet  blended  into  a  dramatic 
unity  and  a  poetic  perfection,  enti- 
thng  the  author  to  the  very  first 
place  amongst  those  dramatists  of 
the  century  who  have  laboured  under 
the  enormous  disadvantage  of  being 
poets  to  start  with. 

Passing  from  the  plays,  we  are  next 
attracted  by  a  number  of  splendid 
poems,  on  whose  base  the  structure 
of  Mr.  Browning's  fame  perhaps  rests 
most  surely — his  dramatic  pieces  — 
poems  which  give  utterance  to  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  persons 
other  than  himself,  or,  as  he  puts  it, 
when  dedicating  a  number  of  them 
to  his  wife : 

'  Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women, 
Live  or  dead,  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy. 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service, 
Speak  from  every  mouth  the  speech  —  a  poem  ;' 

or,  again,  in  '  Sordello '  : 

'  By  making  speak,  myself  kept  out  of  view, 
The  very  man,  as  he  was  wont  to  do.' 


70         MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

At  a  rough  calculation,  there  must 
be  at  least  sixty  of  these  pieces. 
Let  me  run  over  the  names  of  a  very- 
few  of  them.  '  Saul,'  a  poem  beloved 
by  all  true  women  ;  '  Caliban,'  which 
the  men,  not  unnaturally  perhaps, 
often  prefer.  The  'Two  Bishops'; 
the  sixteenth  century  one  ordering 
his  tomb  of  jasper  and  basalt  in  St. 
Praxed's  Church,  and  his  nineteenth 
century  successor  rolling  out  his 
post-prandial  Apologia.  *  My  Last 
Duchess,'  the  '  Soliloquy  in  a  Spanish 
Cloister,'  *  Andrea  del  Sarto,'  '  Fra 
Lippo  Lippi,'  '  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,* 
'Cleon,'  'A  Death  in  the  Desert,' 
'  The  Italian  in  England,'  and  '  The 
Englishman  in  Italy.' 

It  is  plain  truth  to  say  that  no 
other  English  poet,  living  or  dead, 
Shakespeare  excepted,  has  so  heaped 
up  human  interest  for  his  readers  as 
has  Robert  Browning. 

Fancy  stepping  into  a  room   and 


MR.  BROWNING'S  POETRY.        71 

finding  it  full  of  Shakespeare's  prin- 
cipal characters !  What  a  babel  of 
tongues  !  What  a  jostling  of  wits  1 
How  eagerly  one's  eye  would  go  in 
search  of  Hamlet  and  Sir  John  Fal- 
staff,  but  droop  shudderingly  at  the 
thought  of  encountering  the  dis- 
traught gaze  of  Lady  Macbeth  !  We 
should  have  no  difficulty  in  recognis- 
ing Beatrice  in  the  central  figure  of 
that  lively  group  of  laughing  cour- 
tiers ;  whilst  did  w^e  seek  Juliet,  it 
would,  of  course,  be  by  appointment 
on  the  balcony.  To  fancy  yourself  in 
such  company  is  pleasant  matter  for 
a  midsummer's  night's  dream.  No 
poet  has  such  a  gallery  as  Shake- 
speare, but  of  our  modern  poets 
Browning  comes  nearest  him. 

Against  these  dramatic  pieces  the 
charge  of  unintelligibility  fails  as 
completely  as  it  does  against  the 
plays.  They  are  all  perfectly  intelli- 
gible ;  but  —  and  here  is  the  rub  — 


72         MR.  BROWNING'S  POETRY. 

they  are  not  easy  reading,  like  the 
estimable  writings  of  the  late  Mrs. 
Hemans.  They  require  the  same 
honest  attention  as  it  is  the  fashion 
to  give  to  a  lecture  of  Professor 
Huxley's  or  a  sermon  of  Canon 
Licldon's  :  and  this  is  just  what  too 
many  persons  will  not  give  to  poe- 
try.    They 

'  Love  to  hear 
A  soft  pulsation  in  their  easy  ear  ; 
To  turn  the  page,  and  let  their  senses  drink 
A  lay  that  shall  not  trouble  them  to  think.' 

It  is  no  great  wonder  it  should  be 
so.  After  dinner,  when  disposed  to 
sleep,  but  afraid  of  spoiling  our  night's 
rest,  behold  the  witching  hour  re- 
served by  the  nineteenth  century  for 
the  study  of  poetry  !  This  treatment 
of  the  muse  deserves  to  be  held  up 
to  everlasting  scorn  and  infamy  in 
a  passage  of  Miltonic  strength  and 
splendour.  We,  alas !  must  be  con- 
tent with  the  observation,  that  such 
an  opinion  of  the  true  place  of  poetry 


MK.   BKOlViYINGS  POETRY.        73 

in  the  life  of  a  man  excites,  in  the 
breasts  of  the  rightminded,  feelings 
akin  to  those  which  Charles  Lamb 
ascribes  to  the  immortal  Sarah  Bat- 
tle, when  a  young  gentleman  of  a 
literary  turn,  on  taking  a  hand  in  her 
favourite  game  of  whist,  declared  that 
he  saw  no  harm  in  unbending  the 
mind,  now  and  then,  after  serious 
studies,  in  recreations  of  that  kind. 
She  could  not  bear,  so  Elia  proceeds, 
*to  have  her  noble  occupation,  to 
which  she  wound  up  her  faculties, 
considered  in  that  light.  It  was  her 
business,  her  duty  —  the  thing  she 
came  into  the  world  to  do  —  and  she 
did  it  :  she  unbent  her  mind,  after- 
wards, over  a  book ! '  And  so  the 
lover  of  poetry  and  Browning,  after 
winding-up  his  faculties  over  '  Comus' 
or  'Paracelsus,'  over  'Julius  Cxsar ' 
or  '  Strafford,'  may  afterwards,  if  he 
is  so  minded,  unbend  himself  over  the 
'  Origin  of  Species,'  or  that  still  more 


74         MR.   BROIVNINCS  POETRY. 

fascinating  record  wliich  tells  us  how 
little  curly  worms,  only  give  them 
time  enough,  will  cover  with  earth 
even  the  larger  kind  of  stones. 

Next  to  these  dramatic  pieces  come 
what  we  may  be  content  to  call  simply 
poems  :  some  lyrical,  some  narrative. 
The  latter  are  straightforward  enough, 
and,  as  a  rule,  full  of  spirit  and  hu- 
mour ;  but  this  is  more  than  can 
always  be  said  of  the  lyrical  pieces. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  in  dealing 
with  this  first  period,  excluding 
'Sordello,'  we  strike  difficulty.  The 
Chinese  puzzle  comes  in.  We  won- 
der whether  it  all  turns  on  the  punc- 
tuation. And  the  awkward  thing  for 
Mr.  Browning's  reputation  is  this, 
that  these  bewildering  poems  are,  for 
the  most  part,  very  short.  We  say 
awkward,  for  it  is  not  more  certain 
that  Sarah  Gamp  liked  her  beer 
drawn  mild,  than  it  is  that  your  Eng- 
lishman  likes  his   poetry  cut  short; 


MK.   BROWNING'S  POETRY.        75 

and  so,  accordingly,  it  often  happens 
that  some  estimable  paterfamilias 
takes  up  an  odd  volume  of  Brown- 
ing his  volatile  son  or  moonstruck 
daughter  has  left  lying  about,  pishes 
and  pshaws !  and  then,  with  an  air 
of  much  condescension  and  amazing 
candour,  remarks  that  he  will  give 
the  fellow  another  chance,  and  not 
condemn  him  unread.  So  saying,  he 
opens  the  book,  and  carefully  selects 
the  very  shortest  poem  he  can  find  ; 
and  in  a  moment,  without  sign  or 
signal,  note  or  warning,  the  unhappy 
man  is  floundering  up  to  his  neck  in 
lines  like  these,  which  are  the  third 
and  final  stanza  of  a  poem  called 
*  Another  Way  of  Love ' : 


'  And  after,  for  pastime, 
If  June  be  refulgent 
With  flowers  in  completeness, 
All  petals,  no  prickles, 
Delicious  as  trickles 
Of  wine  poured  at  mass-time, 
And  choose  One  indulgent 
To  redness  and  sweetness  ; 


76         MR.  BROWNING'S  POETRY. 

Or  if  with  experience  of  man  and  of  spicier, 
She  use  my  June  lightning,  the  strong  insect-ridder 
To   stop   the   fresh   spinning,  —  why   June  will 
consider.' 

He  comes  up  gasping,  and  more 
than  ever  persuaded  that  Browning's 
poetry  is  a  mass  of  inconglomerate 
nonsense,  which  nobody  understands 
—  least  of  all  members  of  the  Brown- 
ing Society. 

We  need  be  at  no  pains  to  find  a 
meaning  for  everything  Mr.  Brown- 
ing has  written.  But  when  all  is  said 
and  done  —  when  these  few  freaks 
of  a  crowded  brain  are  thrown  over- 
board to  the  sharks  of  verbal  criticism 
who  feed  on  such  things  —  Mr.  Brown- 
ing and  his  great  poetical  achievement 
remain  behind  to  be  dealt  with  and 
accounted  for.  We  do  not  get  rid 
of  the  Laureate  by  quoting : 

'  O  darling  room,  my  heart's  delight, 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight, 
With  thy  two  couches  soft  and  white 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite  — 
No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write  ; ' 


MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY.        77 
or  of  Wordsworth  by  quoting  : 

'  At  this,  my  boy  hung  clown  his  head  : 
He  blushed  with  shame,  nor  made  reply, 
And  five  times  to  the  child  I  said, 
"  Why,  Edward  ?  tell  me  why  ?  "  '  — 

or  of  Keats  byremcmbcring  that  he 
once  addressed  a  young  lady  as  fol- 
lows : 

'  O  come,  Gcorgiana  !  the  rose  is  full  blown, 
The  riches  of  Flora  are  lavishly  strown  : 
The  air  is  all  softness  and  crystal  the  streams, 
The  west  is  resplendently  clothed  in  beams.' 

The  strength  of  a  rope  may  be  but 
the  strength  of  its  weakest  part ;  but 
poets  are  to  be  judged  in  their  hap- 
piest hours,  and  in  their  greatest 
works. 

Taking,  then,  this  first  period  of 
Mr.  Browning's  poetry  as  a  whole, 
and  asking  ourselves  if  we  are  the 
richer  for  it,  how  can  there  be  any 
doubt  as  to  the  reply  ?  What  points 
of  human  interest  has  he  left  un- 
touched .-'  With  what  phase  of  life, 
character,  or  study  does  he  fail   to 


78         MK.  BROIVNING'S  POETRY. 

sympathize  ?  So  far  from  being  the 
rough-hewn  block  *  dull  fools  '  have 
supposed  him,  he  is  the  most  dilet- 
tante of  great  poets.  Do  you  dabble 
in  art  and  perambulate  picture-gal- 
leries ?  Browning  must  be  your 
favourite  poet :  he  is  art's  historian. 
Are  you  devoted  to  music  ?  So  is 
he  :  and  alone  of  our  poets  has  sought 
to  fathom  in  verse  the  deep  mysteries 
of  sound.  Do  you  find  it  impossible 
to  keep  off  theology  }  Browning  has 
more  theology  than  most  bishops  — 
could  puzzle  Gamaliel  and  delight 
Aquinas.  Are  you  in  love .-'  Read 
*  A  Last  Ride  Together,'  *  Youth  and 
Art,'  'A  Portrait,'  'Christine,'  '  In  a 
Gondola,'  '  By  the  Fireside,'  '  Love 
amongst  the  Ruins,'  '  Time's  Re- 
venges,' '  The  Worst  of  It,'  and  a 
host  of  others,  being  careful  always 
to  end  with  '  A  Madhouse  Cell '  ;  and 
we  are  much  mistaken  if  you  do  not 
put  Browning  at  the  very  head  and 


MR.   BROWNING'S  POETRY.        79 

front  of  the  interpreters  of  passion. 
The  many  moods  of  sorrow  are  re- 
flected in  his  verse,  whilst  mirth, 
movement,  and  a  rollicking  humour 
abound  everywhere. 

I  will  venture  upon  but  three  quo- 
tations, for  it  is  late  in  the  day  to  be 
quoting  Browning.  The  first  shall 
be  a  well-known  bit  of  blank  verse 
about  art  from  '  Fra  Lippo  Lippi ' : 

'  For,  don't  you  mark,  we're  made  so  that  we  love 
First  when  we  sec  them  painted,  things  we  have 

passed 
Perhajis  a  lumdred  times,  nor  cared  to  see  : 
And  so  they  are  better  ])ainted  —  better  to  us. 
Which  is  the  same    thing.     Art  was   given  for 

that  — 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 
Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed  now 
Your  cullion's  hanging  face  ?     A  bit  of  chalk. 
And,  trust  me,  but   you  should  though.     How 

much  more 
If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth  ! 
That  were  to  take  the  prior's  pulpit-place  — 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  !     Oh,  oil  ! 
It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do. 
And  we  in  our  graves  !     This  world's   no  blot 

for  us. 
Nor  blank  :  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good. 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink.' 

The  second  is  some  rhymed  rhe- 


8o         MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

toric  from  'Holy  Cross  Day'  —  the 
testimony  of  the  dying  Jew  in  Rome  : 

'  Tliis  world  has  been  harsh  and  strange, 
Something  is  wrong  :  there  needeth  a  change. 
But  what  or  where  ?  at  the  last  or  first  ? 
In  one  point  only  we  sinned  at  worst. 

'  The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  Jacob  yet, 
And  again  in  his  border  see  Israel  set. 
When  Judah  beholds  Jerusalem, 
The  stranger  seed  shall  be  joined  to  them  : 
To  Jacob's  house  shall  the  Gentiles  cleave  : 
So  the  prophet  saith,  and  his  sons  believe. 

'  Ay,  the  children  of  the  chosen  race 
Shall  carry  and  bring  them  to  their  place  ; 
In  the  land  of  the  Lord  shall  lead  the  same, 
Bondsmen  and  handmaids.     Who  shall  blame 
When  the  slaves  enslave,  the  oppressed  ones  o'er 
The  oppressor  triumph  for  evermore  t 

*  God  spoke,  and  gave  us  the  word  to  keep  : 
Bade  never  fold  the  hands,  nor  sleep 
'Mid  a  faithless  world,  at  watch  and  ward, 
Till  the  Christ  at  the  end  relieve  our  guard. 
By  His  servant  Moses  the  watch  was  set : 
Though  near  upon  cockcrow,  we  keep  it  yet. 

'  Thou  !  if  Thou  wast  He,  who  at  mid-watch  came, 
By  the  starlight  naming  a  dubious  Name  ; 
And  if  we  were  too  heavy  with  sleep,  too  rash 
With  fear  —  O  Thou,  if  that  martyr-gash 
Fell  on  Thee,  coming  to  take  Thine  own, 
And  we   gave  the   Cross,    when  we   owed   the 
throne  ; 

'  Thou  art  the  Judge.     We  are  bruised  thus. 
But,  the  Judgment  over,  join  sides  with  us  ! 


MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY.        8i 

Thine,  too,  is  the  cause  !  and  not  more  Thine 
Than  ours  is  tiie  work  of  these  tUigs  and  swine, 
Whose  life  laughs  through  and   sjjits   at   their 

creed, 
Who  maintain  Thee  in  word,  and  defy  Thee  in 

deed. 

'  We  withstood  Christ  then  ?     Be  mindful  how 
At  least  wc  witlistand  Baral)bas  now  ! 
Was  our  outrage  sore  ?  But  the  worst  we  spared, 
To   have   called   these — Christians  —  had   we 

dared  ! 
Let  defiance  to  them  pay  mistrust  of  Thee, 
And  Rome  make  amends  for  Calvary  ! 

'  By  the  torture,  prolonged  from  age  to  age ; 
By  the  infamy,  Israel's  heritage  ; 
By  the  Ghetto's  plague,  by  the  garb's  disgrace, 
By  the  badge  of  shame,  by  the  felon's  place, 
By  the  branding-tool,  the  bloodv  whip. 
And  the  summons  to  Christian  fellowship, 

'  We  boast  our  proof,  that  at  least  the  Jew 
Would  wrest  Christ's  name  from  the  devil's  crew.' 

The  last  quotation  shall  be  from 
the  veritable  Browning  —  of  one  of 
those  poetical  audacities  none  ever 
dared  but  the  Danton  of  modern 
poetry.  Audacious  in  its  familiar 
realism,  in  its  total  disregard  of  poe- 
tical environment,  in  its  rugged  ab- 
ruptness :  but  supremely  successful, 
and  alive  with  emotion  : 
6 


82         MR.  BROWNING'S  POETRY. 

'  What  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears  ? 

Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears  ? 
Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I. 

'  What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again, 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge,  is  a  suburb  lane, 
With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 

'  That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 
From  a  house  you  could  descry 
O'er  the  garden-wall.     Is  the  curtain  blue 
Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  .' 

'  To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather, 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall  ; 
And  that  farthest  bottle,  labelled  "Ether," 
Is  the  house  o'ertopping  all. 

'  At  a  terrace  somewhat  near  its  stopper, 

There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 
A  girl  —  I  know,  sir,  it's  improper  : 
My  poor  mind's  out  of  tune. 

'  Only  there  was  a  way  —  you  crept 
Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house  —  two  eyes  except. 
They  styled  their  house  "  The  Lodge." 

'  What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane  ? 
1]ut  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help  their  eyes  might  strain 
And  stretch  themselves  to  oes, 

'  Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together. 
As  she  left  the  attic  —  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "Ether"  — 
And  stole  from  stair  to  stair. 


MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY.        83 

'  And  stood  liy  the  rose-wreatlied  gate.     Alas  ! 
We  loved,  sir  ;  used  to  meet. 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was  ! 
But  then,  iiow  it  was  sweet  ! ' 

The  second  period  of  Mr.  Brown- 
ing's poetry  demands  a  different  line 
of  argument  ;  for  it  is,  in  my  judg- 
ment, folly  to  deny  that  he  has  of 
late  years  written  a  great  deal  which 
makes  very  difficult  reading  indeed. 
No  doubt  you  may  meet  people  who 
tell  you  that  they  read  '  The  Ring 
and  the  Book'  for  the  first  time  with- 
out much  mental  effort  ;  but  you 
will  do  well  not  to  believe  them. 
These  poems  are  difficult —  they  can- 
not help  being  so.  What  is  '  The 
Ring  and  the  Book '  1  A  huge  novel 
in  20,000  lines  —  told  after  the  meth- 
od not  of  Scott  but  of  Balzac  ;  it 
tears  the  hearts  out  of  a  dozen  char- 
acters ;  it  tells  the  same  story  from 
ten  different  points  of  view.  It  is 
loaded  with  detail  of  every  kind  and 
description  :  you  are  let  off  nothing. 


84         MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

As  with  a  schoolboy's  life  at  a  large 
school,  if  he  is  to  enjoy  it  at  all,  he 
must  fling  himself  into  it,  and  care 
intensely  about  everything  —  so  the 
reader  of  '  The  Ring  and  the  Book' 
must  be  interested  in  everybody  and 
everything,  down  to  the  fact  that  the 
eldest  daughter  of  the  counsel  for  the 
prosecution  of  Guido  is  eight  years 
old  on  the  very  day  he  is  writing  his 
speech,  and  that  he  is  going  to  have 
fried  liver  and  parsley  for  his  supper. 
If  you  are  prepared  for  this,  you 
will  have  your  reward  ;  for  the  style, 
though  rugged  and  involved,  is 
throughout,  with  the  exception  of 
the  speeches  of  counsel,  eloquent, 
and  at  times  superb ;  and  as  for  the 
matter,  if  your  interest  in  human  na- 
ture is  keen,  curious,  almost  profes- 
sional —  if  nothing  man,  woman,  or 
child  has  been,  done,  or  suffered,  or 
conceivably  can  be,  do,  or  suffer,  is 
without  interest  for  you  ;  if  you  are 


MK.   BROWNINGS  POETRY.        85 

fond  of  analysis,  and  do  not  shrink 
from  dissection  —  you  will  prize  '  The 
Ring  and  the  Book '  as  tlie  surgeon 
prizes  the  last  great  contribution  to 
comparative  anatomy  or  pathology. 

But  this  sort  of  work  tells  upon 
style.  Browning  has,  I  think,  fared 
better  than  some  writers.  To  me,  at 
all  events,  the  step  from  '  A  Blot  in 
the  'Scutcheon  '  to  *  The  Ring  and 
the  Book '  is  not  so  marked  as  is  the 
inaiivais  pas  that  lies  between  '  Amos 
Barton  '  and  '  Daniel  Dcronda.'  But 
difficulty  is  not  obscurity.  One  task 
is  more  difficult  than  another.  The 
angles  at  the  base  of  the  isosceles 
triangles  are  apt  to  get  mixed,  and  to 
confuse  us  all  —  man  and  woman 
alike.  '  Prince  Hohenstiel '  some- 
thing or  another  is  a  very  difficult 
poem,  not  only  to  pronounce  but  to 
read  ;  but  if  a  poet  chooses  as  his 
subject  Napoleon  III.  —  in  whom  the 
cad,  the  coward,  the  idealist,  and  the 


86         .nfR.   BKOIVNING'S  POETRY. 

sensualist  were  inextricably  mixed  — 
and  purports  to  make  him  unbosom 
himself  over  a  bottle  of  Gladstone 
claret  in  a  tavern  in  Leicester  Square, 
you  cannot  expect  that  the  product 
should  belong  to  the  same  class  of 
poetry  as  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore's  ad- 
mirable '  Angel  in  the  House.' 

It  is  the  method  that  is  difficult. 
Take  the  husband  in  *  The  Ring  and 
the  Book.'  Mr.  Browning  remorse- 
lessly hunts  him  down,  tracks  him  to 
the  last  recesses  of  his  mind,  and 
there  bids  him  stand  and  deliver.  He 
describes  love,  not  only  broken  but 
breaking  ;  hate  in  its  germ  ;  doubt 
at  its  birth.  These  are  difficult 
things  to  do  either  in  poetry  or  prose, 
and  people  with  easy,  flowing  Addi- 
sonian or  Tennysonian  styles  cannot 
do  them. 

I  seem  to  overhear  a  still,  small 
voice  asking,  But  are  they  worth 
doing }  or  at  all  events  is  it  the  pro- 


MR.   BROWNING'S  POETRY.        87 

vince  of  art  to  do  them  ?  The  ques- 
tion ought  not  to  be  asked.  It  is 
heretical,  being  contrary  to  the  whole 
direction  of  the  latter  half  of  this 
century.  The  chains  binding  us  to 
the  rocks  of  realism  are  faster  riveted 
every  day  ;  and  the  Perseus  who  is 
destined  to  cut  them  is,  I  expect, 
some  mischievous  little  boy  at  a 
Board-school.  But  as  the  question 
has  been  asked,  I  will  own  that  some- 
times, even  when  deepest  in  works  of 
this,  the  now  orthodox  school,  I  have 
been  harassed  by  distressing  doubts 
whether,  after  all,  this  enormous  la- 
bour is  not  in  vain  ;  and,  wearied  by 
the  effort,  overloaded  by  the  detail, 
bewildered  by  the  argument,  and 
sickened  by  the  pitiless  dissection  of 
character  and  motive,  have  been 
tempted  to  cry  aloud,  quoting  —  or 
rather,  in  the  agony  of  the  moment, 
misquoting — Coleridge  : 

'  Simplicity  — 
Thou  better  name  than  all  the  family  of  Fame.' 


88         MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

.But  this  ebullition  of  feeling  is 
childish  and  even  sinful.  We  must 
take  our  poets  as  we  do  our  meals  — 
as  they  are  served  up  to  us.  Indeed, 
you  may,  if  full  of  courage,  give  a 
cook  notice,  but  not  the  time-spirit 
who  makes  our  poets.  We  may  be 
sure  —  to  appropriate  an  idea  of  the 
late  Sir  James  Stephen  —  that  if  Rob- 
ert Browning  had  lived  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  he  would  not  have 
written  a  poem  like  '  The  Ring  and 
the  Book';  and  if  Edmund  Spenser 
had  lived  in  the  nineteenth  century 
he  would  not  have  written  a  poem 
like  the  'Faerie  Queen.' 

It  is  therefore  idle  to  arraign  Mr. 
Browning's  later  method  and  style 
for  possessing  difficulties  and  intri- 
cacies which  are  inherent  to  it.  The 
method,  at  all  events,  has  an  interest 
of  its  own,  a  strength  of  its  own,  a 
grandeur  of  its  own.  If  you  do  not 
like  it,  you  must  leave  it  alone.     You 


MR.   BROWNING'S  POETRY.        89 

are  fond,  you  say,  of  romantic  poetry ; 
well,  then,  take  down  your  Spenser 
and  qualify  yourself  to  join  'the  small 
transfigured  band '  of  those  who  are 
able  to  take  their  Bible-oaths  they 
have  read  their  '  Faerie  Queen '  all 
through.  The  company,  though  small, 
is  delightful,  and  you  will  have  plenty 
to  talk  about  without  abusing  Brown- 
ing, who  probably  knows  his  Spen- 
ser better  than  you  do.  Realism  will 
not  for  ever  dominate  the  world  of 
letters  and  art  —  the  fashion  of  all 
things  passeth  away — but  it  has  al- 
ready earned  a  great  place  :  it  has 
written  books,  composed  poems, 
painted  pictures,  all  stamped  with 
that  '  greatness '  which,  despite  fluc- 
tuations, nay,  even  reversals  of  taste 
and  opinion,  means  immortality. 

But  against  Mr.  Browning's  later 
poems  it  is  sometimes  alleged  that 
their  meaning  is  obscure  because 
their  grammar  is  bad.     A  cynic  was 


90         MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

once  heard  to  observe  with  reference 
to  that  noble  poem  'The  Gram- 
marian's Funeral,'  that  it  was  a  pity 
the  talented  author  had  ever  since 
allowed  himself  to  remain  under  the 
delusion  that  he  had  not  only  buried 
the  grammarian,  but  his  grammar 
also.  It  is  doubtless  true  that  Mr. 
Browning  has  some  provoking  ways, 
and  is  something  too  much  of  a 
verbal  acrobat.  Also,  as  his  witty 
parodist,  the  pet  poet  of  six  genera- 
tions of  Cambridge  undergraduates, 
reminds  us : 

'  He  loves  to  dock  the  smaller  parts  of  speech, 
As  we  curtail  the  already  curtailed  cur.' 

It  is  perhaps  permissible  to  weary 
a  little  of  his  /'s  and  ^'s,  but  we  be- 
lieve we  cannot  be  corrected  when  we 
say  that  Browning  is  a  poet  whose 
grammar  will  bear  scholastic  investi- 
gation better  than  that  of  most  of 
Apollo's  children. 

A    word    about    '  SordcUo.'     One 


MR.   BKOWjVING'S  POETRY.        91 

half  of  '  Sordcllo,'  and  that,  with  Mr. 
Browning's  usual  ill-luck,  the  first 
half,  is  undoubtedly  obscure.  It  is 
as  difficult  to  read  as  'Endymion' 
or  the  '  Revolt  of  Islam,'  and  for  the 
same  reason  —  the  author's  lack  of 
experience  in  the  art  of  composition. 
We  have  all  heard  of  the  young 
architect  who  forgot  to  put  a  stair- 
case in  his  house,  which  contained 
fine  rooms,  but  no  way  of  getting 
into  them.  '  Sordello  '  is  a  poem 
without  a  staircase.  The  author, 
still  in  his  twenties,  essayed  a  high 
thing.     For  his  subject  — 

'  He  singled  out 
Sordello  compassed  murkily  about 
With  ravage  of  six  long  sad  hundred  years.' 

He  partially  failed  ;  and  the  British 
public,  with  its  accustomed  genero- 
sity, and  in  order,  I  suppose,  to  en- 
courage the  others,  has  never  ceased 
girding  at  him,  because  forty -two 
years  ago  he  published,  at  his  own 


92         MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY. 

charges,  a  little  book  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pages,  which  even  such  of 
them  as  were  then  able  to  read  could 
not  understand. 

Poetry  should  be  vital —  either  stir- 
ring our  blood  by  its  divine  move- 
ment, or  snatching  our  breath  by  its 
divine  perfection.  To  do  both  is 
supreme  glory  ;  to  do  either  is  en- 
during fame. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  beautiful 
poetical  writing  to  be  had  nowadays 
from  the  booksellers.  It  is  interest- 
ing reading,  but  as  one  reads  one 
trembles.  It  smells  of  mortality.  It 
would  seem  as  if,  at  the  very  birth  of 
most  of  our  modern  poems, 

'  The  conscious  Parcae  threw 
Upon  their  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue.' 

That  their  lives  may  be  prolonged 
is  my  pious  prayer.  In  these  bad 
days,  when  it  is 'thought  more  educa- 
tionally useful  to  know  the  principle 
of  the  common  pump   than  Keats's 


MR.   BROWNINGS  POETRY.        93 

*  Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,'  one  cannot 
afford  to  let  any  good  poetry  die. 

But  when  we  take  down  Brown- 
ing, we  cannot  think  of  him  and 
the  '  wormy  bed  '  together.  He  is  so 
unmistakably  and  deliciously  alive. 
Die,  indeed  !  when  one  recalls  the 
ideal  characters  he  has  invested  with 
reality  ;  how  he  has  described  love 
and  joy,  pain  and  sorrow,  art  and 
music  ;  as  poems  like  *  Childe  Roland,' 
'Abt  Vogler,'  'Evelyn  Hope,'  'The 
Worst  of  It,'  '  Pictor  Ignotus,'  '  The 
Lost  Leader,'  'Home  Thoughts  from 
Abroad,'  '  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,' 
'Hervd  Riel,'  'A  Householder,'  'Fears 
and  Scruples,'  come  tumbling  into 
one's  memory,  one  over  another  — 
we  are  tempted  to  employ  the  lan- 
guage of  hyperbole,  and  to  answer 
the  question  '  Will  Browning  die  .'' ' 
by  exclaiming,  '  Yes  ;  when  Niagara 
stops.'     In  him  indeed  we  can 


94         MR.   BROWNING'S  POETRY. 

'  Discern 

Infinite  passion  and  the  pain 

Of  finite  liearts  that  yearn.' 

But  love  of  Mr.  Browning's  poetry 
is  no  exclusive  cult. 

Of  Lord  Tennyson  it  is  needless  to 
speak.  Certainly  amongst  his  Peers 
there  is  no  such  Poet. 

Mr.  Arnold  may  have  a  limited 
poetical  range  and  a  restricted  style, 
but  within  that  range  and  in  that 
style,  surely  we  must  exclaim  : 

*  Whence  that  completed  form  of  all  complete- 
ness ? 

Whence  came  that  high  perfection  of  all  sweet- 
ness ? ' 

Rossetti's  luscious  lines  seldom  fail 
to  cast  a  spell  by  which 

*  In  sundry  moods  'tis  pastime  to  be  bound.' 

William  Morris  has  a  sunny  slope 
of  Parnassus  all  to  himself,  and  Mr. 
Swinburne  has  written  some  verses 
over  which  the  world  will  long  love 
to  linger. 

Dull  must  he  be  of  soul  who  can 


MR.  BROWNINGS  POETRY.        95 

take  up  cardinal  Newman's  'Verses 
on  Various  Occasions,'  or  Miss  Chris- 
tina Rossetti's  poems,  and  lay  them 
down  without  recognising  their  di- 
verse charms. 

Let  us  be  Catholics  in  this  great 
matter,  and  burn  our  candles  at  many 
shrines.  In  the  pleasant  realms  of 
poesy,  no  liveries  are  worn,  no  paths 
prescribed  ;  you  may  wander  where 
you  will,  stop  where  you  like,  and 
worship  whom  you  love.  Nothing 
is  demanded  of  you,  save  this,  that 
in  all  your  wanderings  and  worships, 
you  keep  two  objects  steadily  in 
view  —  two,  and  two  only,  truth  and 
beauty. 


TRUTH-HUNTING. 

It  is  common  knowledge  that  the 
distmguishing  characteristic  of  the 
day  is  the  zeal  displayed  by  us  all  in 
hunting  after  Truth.  A  really  not 
inconsiderable  portion  of  whatever 
time  we  are  able  to  spare  from  mak- 
ing or  losing  money  or  reputation, 
is  devoted  to  this  sport,  whilst  both 
reading  and  conversation  are  largely 
impressed  into  the  same  service. 

Nor  are  there  wanting  those  who 
avow  themselves  anxious  to  see  this, 
their  favourite  pursuit,  raised  to  the 
dignity  of  a  national  institution. 
They  would  have  Truth-hunting  es- 
tablished and  endowed. 

Mr.  Carlyle  has  somewhere  de- 
scribed   with     great     humour     the 


TRUTH-HUNTING.  97 

'dreadfully  painful '  manner  in  which 
Kepler  made  his  celebrated  calcula- 
tions and  discoveries  ;  but  our  young 
men  of  talent  fail  to  see  the  joke,  and 
take  no  pleasure  in  such  anecdotes. 
Truth,  they  feel,  is  not  to  be  had 
from  them  on  any  such  terms.  And 
why  should  it  be  .?  Is  it  not  notori- 
ous that  all  who  are  lucky  enough  to 
supply  wants  grow  rapidly  and  enor- 
mously rich ;  and  is  not  Truth  a  now 
recognised  want  in  ten  thousand 
homes  —  wherever,  indeed,  persons 
are  to  be  found  wealthy  enough  to 
pay  Mr.  Mudie  a  guinea  and  so  far 
literate  as  to  be  able  to  read  }  What, 
save  the  modesty,  is  there  surprising 
in  the  demand  now  made  on  behalf 
of  some  young  people,  whose  means 
are  incommensurate  with  their  tal- 
ents, that  they  should  be  allowed,  as 
a  reward  for  doling  out  monthly  or 
quarterly  portions  of  truth,  to  live  in 
houses  rent-free,  have  their  meals  for 
7 


98  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

nothing,  and  a  trifle  of  money  be- 
sides ?  Would  Bass  consent  to  sup- 
ply us  with  beer  in  return  for  board 
and  lodging,  we  of  course  defraying 
the  actual  cost  of  his  brewery,  and 
allowing  him  some  ;^300  a  year  for 
himself  ?  Who,  as  he  read  about 
*  Sun-spots,'  or  '  Fresh  Facts  for  Dar- 
win,' or  the  '  True  History  of  Modesty 
or  Veracity,'  showing  how  it  came 
about  that  these  high-sounding  vir- 
tues are  held  in  their  present  some- 
what general  esteem,  would  find  it  in 
his  heart  to  grudge  the  admirable 
authors  their  freedom  from  petty 
cares  ? 

But,  whether  Truth -hunting  be 
ever  established  or  not,  no  one  can 
doubt  that  it  is  a  most  fashionable 
pastime,  and  one  which  is  being  pur- 
sued with  great  vigour. 

All  hunting  is  so  far  alike  as  to 
lead  one  to  believe  that  there  must 
sometimes   occur  in  Truth -hunting, 


TRUrH-IIUNTING.  99 

just  as  much  as  in  fox-hunting,  long 
pauses,  whilst  the  covers  are  being 
drawn  in  search  of  the  game,  and 
when  thoughts  are  free  to  range  at 
will  in  pursuit  of  far  other  objects 
than  those  giving  their  name  to  the 
sport.  If  it  should  chance  to  any 
Truth-hunter,  during  some  '  lull  in 
his  hot  chase,'  whilst,  for  example,  he 
is  waiting  for  the  second  volume  of 
an  '  Analysis  of  Religion,'  or  for  the 
last  thing  out  on  the  Fourth  Gospel, 
to  take  up  this  book,  and  open  it  at 
this  page,  we  should  like  to  press 
him  for  an  answer  to  the  following 
question  :  '  Are  you  sure  that  it  is  a 
good  thing  for  you  to  spend  so  much 
time  in  speculating  about  matters 
outside  your  daily  life  and  walk  ? ' 

Curiosity  is  no  doubt  an  excellent 
quality.  In  a  critic  it  is  especially 
excellent.  To  want  to  know  all 
about  a  thing,  and  not  merely  one 
man's   account   or  version  of   it ;  to 


100  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

see  all  round  it,  or,  at  any  rate,  as 
far  round  as  is  possible  ;  not  to  be 
lazy  or  indifferent,  or  easily  put  off, 
or  scared  away  —  all  this  is  really 
very  excellent.  Sir  Fitz  James  Ste- 
phen professes  great  regret  that  we 
have  not  got  Pilate's  account  of  the 
events  immediately  preceding  the 
Crucifixion.  He  thinks  it  would 
throw  great  light  upon  the  subject ; 
and  no  doubt,  if  it  had  occurred  to  the 
Evangelists  to  adopt  in  their  narra- 
tives the  method  which  long  after- 
wards recommended  itself  to  the 
author  of  '  The  Ring'  and  the  Book,' 
we  should  now  be  in  possession  of 
a  mass  of  very  curious  information. 
But,  excellent  as  all  this  is  in  the 
realm  of  criticism,  the  question  re- 
mains, How  does  a  restless  habit  of 
mind  tell  upon  conduct  .■* 

John  Mill  was  not  one  from  whose 
lips  the  advice  '  Stare  super  antiqttas 
vias '  was  often  heard  to  proceed,  and 


TRUTH-HUNTING.  loi 

he  was  by  profession  a  speculator, 
yet  in  that  significant  book,  the  '  Au- 
tobiography,' he  describes  this  age 
of  Truth-hunters  as  one  '  of  weak 
convictions,  paralyzed  intellects,  and 
growing  laxity  of  opinions.' 

Is  Truth-hunting  one  of  those  ac- 
tive mental  habits  which,  as  Bishop 
Butler  tells  us,  intensify  their  effects 
by  constant  use  ;  and  are  weak  con- 
victions, paralyzed  intellects,  and  lax- 
ity of  opinions  amongst  the  effects 
of  Truth-hunting  on  the  majority  of 
minds?  These  are  not  unimportant 
questions. 

Let  us  consider  briefly  the  proba- 
ble effects  of  speculative  habits  on 
conduct. 

The  discussion  of  a  question  of 
conduct  has  the  great  charm  of  jus- 
tifying, if  indeed  not  requiring,  per- 
sonal illustration  ;  and  this  particu- 
lar question  is  well  illustrated  by  in- 
stituting a  comparison   between  the 


102  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

life  and  character  of  Charles  Lamb 
and  those  of  some  of  his  distinguished 
friends. 

Personal  illustratioM,  especially 
when  it  proceeds  by  way  of  compa- 
rison, is  always  dangerous,  and  the 
dangers  are  doubled  when  the  sub- 
jects illustrated  and  compared  are 
favourite  authors.  It  behoves  us  to 
proceed  warily  in  this  matter.  A 
dispute  as  to  the  respective  merits 
of  Gray  and  Collins  has  been  known 
to  result  in  a  visit  to  an  attorney  and 
the  revocation  of  a  will.  An  avowed 
inability  to  see  anything  in  Miss  Aus- 
ten's novels  is  reported  to  have  proved 
destructive  of  an  otherwise  good 
chance  of  an  Indian  judgeship,  I 
believe,  however,  I  run  no  great  risk 
in  asserting  that,  of  all  English  au- 
thors, Charles  Lamb  is  the  one  loved 
most  warmly  and  emotionally  by  his 
admirers,  amongst  whom  I  reckon 
only  those  who  are  as  familiar  with 


TRUTH-HUNTING.  103 

the  four  volumes  of  his  '  Life  and 
Letters  '  as  with  '  Elia.' 

But  how  does  he  ilkistratc  the  par- 
ticular question  now  engaging  our  at- 
tention ? 

Speaking  of  his  sister  Mary,  who, 
as  everyone  knows,  throughout  *  Elia  ' 
is  called  his  Cousin  Bridget,  he  says  : 

'  It  has  been  the  lot  of  my  cousin, 

*  oftener,  perhaps,  than  I  could  have 
'wished,   to  have  had  for  her   asso- 

*  ciates  and  mine  freethinkers,  lead- 
*ers  and  disciples  of  novel  philoso- 
'phies  and  systems,  but  she  neither 
'wrangles  with  nor  accepts  their 
'  opinions.' 

Nor  did  her  brother.  He  lived  his 
life  cracking  his  little  jokes  and  read- 
ing his  great  folios,  neither  wrangling 
with  nor  accepting  the  opinions  of  the 
friends  he  loved  to  see  around  him. 
To  a  contemporary  stranger  it  might 
well  have  appeared  as  if  his  life  were 
a  frivolous  and  useless  one  as  com- 


104  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

pared  with  those  of  these  philosophers 
and  thinkers.  TJicy  discussed  their 
great  schemes  and  affected  to  probe 
deep  mysteries,  and  were  constantly- 
asking,  '  What  is  Truth  ? '  He  sipped 
his  glass,  shuffled  his  cards,  and  was 
content  with  the  humbler  inquiry, 
'  What  are  Trumps  ? '  But  to  us,  look- 
ing back  upon  that  little  group,  and 
knowing  what  we  now  do  about  each 
member  of  it,  no  such  mistake  is  pos- 
sible. To  us  it  is  plain  beyond  all 
question  that,  judged  by  wdiatever 
standard  of  excellence  it  is  possible 
for  any  reasonable  human  being  to 
take,  Lamb  stands  head  and  shoul- 
ders a  better  man  than  any  of  them. 
No  need  to  stop  to  compare  him  with 
Godwin,  or  Hazlitt,  or  Lloyd  ;  let  us 
boldly  put  him  in  the  scales  with  one 
whose  fame  is  in  all  the  churches  — 
with  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  '  logi- 
cian, metaphysician,  bard.' 

There  are  some  men  whom  to  abuse 


TRUTH-HUNTING.  105 

is  pleasant.  Coleridge  is  not  one  of 
them.  How  gladly  \vc  would  love  the 
author  of  '  Christabcl  '  if  we  could  ! 
But  the  thing  is  flatly  impossible. 
His  was  an  unlovely  character.  The 
sentence  passed  upon  him  by  Mr. 
Matthew  Arnold  (parenthetically,  in 
one  of  the  '  Essays  in  Criticism  ')  — 
*  Coleridge  had  no  morals  '  —  is  no 
less  just  than  pitiless.  As  we  gather 
information  about  him  from  numerous 
quarters,  we  find  it  impossible  to  re- 
sist the  conclusion  that  he  was  a  man 
neglectful  of  restraint,  irresponsive  to 
the  claims  of  those  who  had  every 
claim  upon  him,  willing  to  receive, 
slow  to  give. 

In  early  manhood  Coleridge  planned 
a  Pantisocracy  where  all  the  virtues 
were  to  thrive.  Lamb  did  something 
far  more  difficult  :  he  played  cribbage 
every  night  with  his  imbecile  father, 
whose  constant  stream  of  querulous 
talk  and  fault-finding  might  well  have 


lo6  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

goaded  a  far  stronger  man  into  prac- 
tising and  justifying  neglect. 

That  Lamb,  with  all  his  admiration 
for  Coleridge,  was  well  aware  of  dan- 
gerous tendencies  in  his  character,  is 
made  apparent  by  many  letters,  nota- 
bly by  one  written  in  1796,  in  which 
he  says  : 

*  O  my  friend,  cultivate  the  filial 
'feelings  !  and  let  no  man  think  him- 
*self  released  from  the  kind  chari- 
'ties  of  relationship  :  these  shall  give 
*  him  peace  at  the  last ;  these  are  the 
'best  foundation  for  every  species  of 
'benevolence.  I  rejoice  to  hear  that 
'you  are  reconciled  with  all  your  rc- 
'lations.' 

This  surely  is  as  valuable  an  *  aid 
to  reflection  '  as  any  supplied  by  the 
Highgate  seer. 

Lamb  gave  but  little  thought  to 
the  wonderful  difference  between  the 
'  reason  '  and  the  '  understanding.* 
He  preferred  old  plays  —  an  odd  diet, 


TRUTH-HUNTING.  107 

some  may  think,  on  which  to  feed 
the  virtues  ;  but,  however  that  may 
be,  the  noble  fact  remains,  that  he, 
poor,  frail  boy  !  (for  he  was  no  more, 
when  trouble  first  assailed  him) 
stooped  down  and,  without  sigh  or 
sign,  took  upon  his  own  shoulders 
the  whole  burden  of  a  life-long  sor- 
row. 

Coleridge  married.  Lamb,  at  the 
bidding  of  duty,  remained  single, 
wedding  himself  to  the  sad  fortunes 
of  his  father  and  sister.  Shall  wc 
pity  him  .-*  No  ;  he  had  his  reward 
—  the  surpassing  reward  that  is  only 
within  the  power  of  literature  to  be- 
stow. It  was  Lamb,  and  not  Cole- 
ridge, who  wrote  '  Dream  -  Children  : 
a  Reverie ' : 

'  Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long 
'years,  in  hope  sometimes,  sometimes 

*  in   despair,    yet    persisting   ever,  I 

*  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n  ;  and 

*as   much   as  children  could  under- 


loS  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

'stand,  I  explained  to  them  what 
'  coyness  and  difificulty  and  denial 
'meant  in  maidens — when,  suddenly 
'  turning  to  Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first 

*  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes  with 
'  such  a  reality  of  representment  that 
'  I  became  in  doubt  which  of  them 
'  stood  before  me,  or  whose  that 
'  bright  hair  was  ;  and  while  I  stood 
'  gazing,  both  the  children  gradually 
'  grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding 
'  and    still   receding,   till    nothing   at 

*  last  but  two  mournful  features  were 
'  seen  in  the  uttermost  distance,  which, 
'  without  speech,  strangely  impressed 
'  upon  me  the  effects  of  speech.  "  We 
'  are  not  of  Alice  nor  of  thee,  nor  are 

*  we  children  at  all.     The  children  of 

*  Alice  call  Bartrum  father.     We  are 

*  nothing,    less     than     nothing,    and 

*  dreams.  We  are  only  what  might 
^  have  bceiL^  ' 

Godwin  !      Hazlitt  !      Coleridge  ! 
Where   now  are  their   *  novel  philo- 


TRUTH-HUNTING.  109 

Sophies  and  systems'?  Bottled  moon- 
shine, which  docs  not  improve  by 
keeping. 

'  Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust.' 

Were  we  disposed  to  admit  that 
Lamb  would  in  all  probability  have 
been  as  good  a  man  as  everyone 
agrees  he  was  —  as  kind  to  his  father, 
as  full  of  self-sacrifice  for  the  sake  of 
his  sister,  as  loving  and  ready  a  friend 
—  even  though  he  had  paid  more 
heed  to  current  s]3eculations,  it  is  yet 
not  without  use  in  a  time  like  this, 
when  so  much  stress  is  laid  upon 
anxious  inquiry  into  the  mysteries  of 
soul  and  body,  to  point  out  how  this 
man  attained  to  a  moral  excellence 
denied  to  his  speculative  contempo- 
raries ;  performed  duties  from  which 
they,  good  men  as  they  were,  would 
one  and  all  have  shrunk ;  how,  in 
short,  he  contrived  to  achieve  what 
no  one  of  his  friends,  not  even  the 


no  77?  UTH-HUNTING. 

immaculate  Wordsworth  or  the  pre- 
cise Southey,  achieved  —  the  living 
of  a  life,  the  records  of  which  are 
inspiriting  to  read,  and  are.  indeed 
*  the  presence  of  a  good  diffused ; ' 
and  managed  to  do  it  all  without 
either  'wrangling  with  or  accepting' 
the  opinions  that  '  hurtled  in  the  air ' 
about  him. 

But  %vas  there  no  relation  between 
his  unspeculative  habit  of  mind  and 
his  honest,  unwavering  service  of 
duty,  whose  voice  he  ever  obeyed  as 
the  ship  the  rudder  }  It  would  be 
difBcult  to  name  anyone  more  unlike 
Lamb,  in  many  aspects  of  character, 
than  Dr.  Johnson,  for  whom  he  had 
(mistakenly)  no  warm  regard  ;  but 
they  closely  resemble  one  another  in 
their  indifference  to  mere  speculation 
about  things  —  if  things  they  can  be 
called  —  outside  our  human  walk  ;  in 
their  hearty  love  of  honest  earthly 
life,  in  their  devotion  to  their  friends. 


TRUTH-HUNTING.  1 1 1 

their  kindness  to  dependents,  and  in 
their  obedience  to  duty.  What  caused 
each  of  them  the  most  paiu  was  the 
recollection  of  a  past  unkindness. 
The  poignancy  of  Dr.  Johnson's  grief 
on  one  such  recollection  is  historical ; 
and  amongst  Lamb's  letters  are  to 
be  found  several  in  which,  with  vast 
depths  of  feeling,  he  bitterly  upbraids 
himself  for  neglect  of  old  friends. 

Nothing  so  much  tends  to  blur 
moral  distinctions,  and  to  obliterate 
plain  duties,  as  the  free  indulgence 
of  speculative  habits.  We  must  all 
know  many  a  sorry  scrub  who  has 
fairly  talked  himself  into  the  belief 
that  nothing  but  his  intellectual  dif- 
ficulties prevents  him  from  being 
another  St.  Francis.  We  think  we 
could  suggest  a  few  score  of  other 
obstacles. 

Would  it  not  be  better  for  most 
people,  if,  instead  of  stuffing  their 
heads  with  controversy,  they  were  to 


112  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

devote  their  scanty  leisure  to  read- 
ing books,  such  as,  to  name  one  only, 
Kaye's  '  History  of  the  Sepoy  War,' 
which  are  crammed  full  of  activities 
and  heroisms,  and  which  force  upon 
the  reader's  mind  the  healthy  convic- 
tion that,  after  all,  whatever  myste- 
ries may  appertain  to  mind  and  mat- 
ter, and  notwithstanding  grave  doubts 
as  to  the  authenticity  of  the  Fourth 
Gospel,  it  is  bravery,  truth  and  hon- 
our, loyalty  and  hard  work,  each  man 
at  his  post,  which  make  this  planet 
inhabitable  ? 

In  these  days  of  champagne  and 
shoddy,  of  display  of  teacups  and 
rotten  foundations  —  especially,  too, 
now  that  the  '  nexus '  of  '  cash  pay- 
ment,' which  was  to  bind  man  to  man 
in  the  bonds  of  a  common  pecuniary 
interest,  is  hopelessly  broken  —  it 
becomes  plain  that  the  real  wants  of 
the  age  are  not  analyses  of  religious 
belief,  nor  discussions  as  to  whether 


TRUTH-HUNTING.  113 

*  Person  '  or  '  Stream  of  Tendency  ' 
are  the  apter  words  to  describe  God 
by  ;  but  a  steady  supply  of  honest, 
plain-saihng  men  who  can  be  safely 
trusted  with  small  sums,  and  to  do 
what  in  them  lies  to  maintain  the 
honour  of  the  various  professions, 
and  to  restore  the  credit  of  English 
workmanship.  We  want  Lambs,  not 
Coleridges.  The  verdict  to  be  striven 
for  is  not  '  Well  guessed,'  but  '  Well 
done.' 

All  our  remarks  are  confined  to 
the  realm  of  opinion.  Faith  may  be 
well  left  alone,  for  she  is,  to  give  her 
her  due,  our  largest  manufacturer  of 
good  works,  and  whenever  her  fur- 
naces are  blown  out,  morality  suffers. 

But  speculation  has  nothing  to  do 
with  faith.  The  region  of  specula- 
tion is  the  region  of  opinion,  and  a 
hazy,  lazy,  delightful  region  it  is ; 
good  to  talk  in,  good  to  smoke  in, 
peopled   with    pleasant    fancies    and 


114  77?  UTH-HUNTING. 

charming  ideas,  strange  analogies 
and  killing  jests.  How  quickly  the 
time  passes  there  !  how  well  it  seems 
spent !  The  Philistines  are  all  out- 
side ;  everyone  is  reasonable  and  tol- 
erant, and  good-tempered  ;  you  think 
and  scheme  and  talk,  and  look  at 
everything  in  a  hundred  ways  and 
from  all  possible  points  of  view  ;  and 
it  is  not  till  the  company  breaks  up 
and  the  lights  are  blown  out,  and  you 
are  left  alone  with  silence,  that  the 
doubt  occurs  to  you,  What  is  the 
good  of  it  all  ? 

Where  is  the  actuary  who  can 
appraise  the  value  of  a  man's  opi- 
nions ?  '  When  we  speak  of  a  man's 
'opinions,'  says  Dr.  Newman,  'what 
'  do  we  mean  but  the  collection  of 
*  notions  he  happens  to  have  .-' '  Hap- 
pens to  have  !  How  did  he  come  by 
them  }  It  is  the  knowledge  we  all 
possess  of  the  sorts  of  ways  in  which 
men   get  their  opinions  that   makes 


TR  UTH-HUNTING.  1 1 5 

US  SO  little  affected  in  our  own  minds 
by  those  of  men  for  whose  characters 
and  intellects  we  may  have  great  ad- 
miration. A  sturdy  Nonconformist 
minister,  who  thinks  Mr.  Gladstone 
the  ablest  and  most  honest  man,  as 
well  as  the  ripest  scholar  within  the 
three  kingdoms,  is  no  whit  shaken  in 
his  Nonconformity  by  knowing  that 
his  idol  has  written  in  defence  of  the 
Apostolical  Succession,  and  believes 
in  special  sacramental  graces.  Mr. 
Gladstone  may  have  been  a  great 
student  of  Church  history,  whilst 
Nonconformist  reading  under  that 
head  usually  begins  with  Luther's 
Theses  —  but  what  of  that .''  Is  it 
not  all  explained  by  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Gladstone  was  at  Oxford  in  1831  .'' 
So  at  least  the  Nonconformist  minis- 
ter will  think. 

The  admission  frankly  made,  that 
these  remarks  are  confined  to  the 
realms  of  opinion,  prevents  me  from 


1 16  TR  UTH-HUNTING. 

urging  on  everyone  my  prescription, 
but,  with  the  two  exceptions  to  be 
immediately  named,  I  believe  it  would 
be  found  generally  useful.  It  may 
be  made  up  thus  :  '  As  much  reti- 
'cence  as  is  consistent  with  good- 
'  breeding  upon,  and  a  wisely  tem- 
*  pered  indifference  to,  the  various 
'speculative  questions  now  agitated 
'  in  our  midst.' 

This  prescription  would  be  found 
to  liberate  the  mind  from  all  kinds 
of  cloudy  vapours  which  obscure  the 
mental  vision  and  conceal  from  men 
their  real  position,  and  would  also 
set  free  a  great  deal  of  time  which 
might  be  profitably  spent  in  quite 
other  directions. 

The  first  of  the  two  exceptions  I 
have  alluded  to  is  of  those  who 
possess  — whether  honestly  come  by 
or  not  we  cannot  stop  to  inquire  — 
strong  convictions  upon  these  very 
questions.      These  convictions  they 


TR  UTH-HUNTTNG.  1 1 7 

must  be  allowed  to  iterate  and  re- 
iterate, and  to  proclaim  that  in  them 
is  to  be  found  the  secret  of  all  this 
(otherwise)  unintelligible  world. 

The  second  exception  is  of  those 
who  pursue  Truth  as  by  a  divine 
compulsion,  and  who  can  be  likened 
only  to  the  nympholepts  of  old  ; 
those  unfortunates  who,  whilst  care- 
lessly strolling  amidst  sylvan  shades, 
caught  a  hasty  glimpse  of  the  flowing 
robes  or  even  of  the  gracious  coun- 
tenance of  some  spiritual  inmate  of 
the  woods,  in  whose  pursuit  their 
whole  lives  were  ever  afterwards 
fruitlessly  spent. 

The  nympholepts  of  Truth  are 
profoundly  interesting  figures  in  the 
world's  history,  but  their  lives  are 
melancholy  reading,  and  seldom  fail 
to  raise  a  crop  of  gloomy  thoughts. 
Their  finely  touched  spirits  are  not 
indeed  liable  to  succumb  to  the  ordi- 
nary  temptations   of  life,   and   they 


1 1 8  TR  UTH-HUNTING. 

thus  escape  the  evils  which  usually 
follow  in  the  wake  of  speculation ; 
but  what  is  their  labour's  reward  ? 

Readers  of  Dr.  Newman  will  re- 
member, and  will  thank  me  for  re- 
calling it  to  mind,  an  exquisite  pas- 
sage, too  long  to  be  quoted,  in  which, 
speaking  as  a  Catholic  to  his  late 
Anglican  associates,  he  reminds  them 
how  he  once  participated  in  their 
pleasures  and  shared  their  hopes,  and 
thus  concludes  : 

'  When,  too,  shall  I  not  feel  the 
'soothing  recollection  of  those  dear 
'  years  which  I  spent  in  retirement, 
'  in  preparation  for  my  deliverance 
'  from  Egypt,  asking  for  light,  and 
'by  degrees  getting  it,  with  less  of 
'temptation  in  my  heart  and  sin  on 
'  my  conscience  than  ever  before  ?  ' 

But  the  passage  is  sad  as  well  as 
exquisite,  showing  to  us,  as  it  does, 
one  who  from  his  earliest  days  has 
rejoiced  in  a  faith  in  God,  intense, 


TR  UTH-HUNTING .  119 

unwavering,  constant  ;  harassed  by 
distressing  doubts,  he  carries  them 
all,  in  the  devotion  of  his  faith,  the 
warmth  of  his  heart,  and  the  purity 
of  his  life,  to  the  throne  where  Truth 
sits  in  state  ;  Hving,  he  tells  us,  in 
retirement,  and  spending  great  por- 
tions of  every  day  on  his  knees  ;  and 
yet — we  ask  the  question  with  all 
reverence  —  what  did  Dr.  Newman 
get  in  exchange  for  his  prayers  ? 
*  I  think  it  impossible  to  withstand 

*  the  evidence  which  is  brought  for 
'  the  liquefaction  of  the  blood  of  St. 
'  Januarius  at  Naples,  or  for  the  mo- 
'  tion  of  the  eyes  of  the  pictures  of 

*  the  Madonna  in  the  Roman  States. 

*  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  the  ma- 
'terial  of  the  Lombard  Cross  at 
'  Monza,  and  I  do  not  see  why  the 

*  Holy  Coat  at  Treves  may  not  have 
'been  what  it  professes  to  be.  I 
'firmly  believe  that  portions  of  the 
'True  Cross  are  at  Rome  and  else- 


120  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

*  where,  that  the  Crib  of  Bethlehem 
*is  at  Rome,  and  the  bodies  of  St. 
'  Peter  and    St.    Paul  ;  also  I    firmly 

*  believe  that  the  relics  of  the  Saints 

*  are  doing  innumerable  miracles  and 
'  graces  daily.     I  firmly  believe  that 

*  before  now  Saints  have  raised  the 
'  dead  to  life,  crossed  the  seas  without 

*  vessels,  multiplied  grain  and  bread, 

*  cured  incurable  diseases,  and  stopped 
'the  operations  of  the  laws  of  the 
'universe  in  a  multitude  of  ways.' 

So  writes  Dr.  Newman,  with  that 
candour,  that  love  of  putting  the  case 
most  strongly  against  himself,  which 
is  only  one  of  the  lovely  characteris- 
tics of  the  man  whose  long  life  has 
been  a  miracle  of  beauty  and  grace, 
and  who  has  contrived  to  instil  into  his 
very  controversies  more  of  the  spirit 
of  Christ  than  most  men  can  find 
room  for  in  their  prayers.  But  the 
dilemma  is  an  awkward  one.  Does 
the  Madonna  wink,  or  is  Heaven 
deaf  > 


TR  UTII-IIUNTING.  1 2 1 

Oh,  Spirit  of  Truth,  where  wert 
thou,  when  the  remorseless  deep  of 
superstition  closed  over  the  head  of 
John  Henry  Newman,  who  surely  de- 
served to  be  thy  bcst-lovcd  son  ? 

But  this  is  a  digression.  With 
the  nympholepts  of  Truth  we  have 
nought  to  do.  They  must  be  allowed 
to  pursue  their  lonely  and  devious 
paths,  and  though  the  records  of 
their  wanderings,  their  conflicting 
conclusions,  and  their  widely-parted 
resting-places  may  fill  us  with  de- 
spair, still  they  are  witnesses  whose 
testimony  we  could  ill  afford  to  lose. 

But  there  are  not  many  nympho- 
lepts. The  symptoms  of  the  great 
majority  of  our  modern  Truth-hun- 
ters are  very  different,  as  they  will, 
with  their  frank  candour,  be  the  first 
to  admit.  They  are  free  '  to  drop 
their  swords  and  daggers  '  whenever 
so  commanded,  and  it  is '  high  time 
they  did. 


122  TRUTH-HUNTING. 

With  these  two  exceptions  I  think 
my  prescription  will  be  found  of  gen- 
eral utility,  and  likely  to  promote  a 
healthy  flow  of  good  works, 

I  had  intended  to  say  something 
as  to  the  effect  of  speculative  habits 
upon  the  intellect,  but  cannot  now 
do  so.  The  following  shrewd  remark 
of  Mr,  Latham's  in  his  interesting 
book  on  the  'Action  of  Examinations ' 
may,  however,  be  quoted  ;  its  bear- 
ing will  be  at  once  seen,  and  its 
truth  recognised  by  many  : 

'  A  man  who  has   been   thus  pro- 

*  vided  with  views  and  acute  obser- 
'  vations  may  have  destroyed  in  him- 
'  self  the  germs  of  that  power  which 
'  he  simulates.     He  might  have  had 

*  a  thought  or  two  now  and  then  if 

*  he  had  been  let  alone,  but  if  he  is 
'  made  first  to  aim  at  a  standard  of 
'thought  above  his  years,  and  then 

*  finds  he  can  get  the  sort  of  thoughts 

*  he  wants  without  thinking,  he  is  in 
'  a  fair  way  to  be  spoiled.' 


ACTORS. 

Most  people,  I  suppose,  at  one  time 
or  another  in  their  hves,  have  felt  the 
charm  of  an  actor's  life,  as  they  were 
free  to  fancy  it,  well-nigh  irresistible. 
What  is  it  to  be  a  great  actor  .'*  I 
say  a  great  actor,  because  (I  am  sure) 
no  amateur  ever  fancied  himself  a 
small  one.  Is  it  not  always  to  have 
the  best  parts  in  the  best  plays ;  to 
be  the  central  figure  of  every  group  ; 
to  feel  that  attention  is  arrested  the 
moment  you  come  on  the  stage  ;  and 
(more  exquisite  satisfaction  still)  to 
be  aware  that  it  is  relaxed  when  you 
go  off ;  to  have  silence  secured  for 
your  smallest  utterances  ;  to  know 
that  the  highest  dramatic  talent  has 
been  exercised   to   invent  situations 


124  ACTORS. 

for  the  very  purpose  of  giving  effect 
to  yoiir  words  and  dignity  to  your 
actions  ;  to  quell  all  opposition  by 
the  majesty  of  your  bearing  or  the 
brilliancy  of  your  wit ;  and  finally, 
either  to  triumph  over  disaster,  or  if 
you  be  cast  in  tragedy,  happier  still, 
to  die  upon  the  stage,  supremely 
pitied  and  honestly  mourned  for  at 
least  a  minute  ?  And  then,  from 
first  to  last,  applause  loud  and  long 
—  not  postponed,  not  even  delayed, 
but  following  immediately  after.  For 
a  piece  of  diseased  egotism  —  that  is, 
for  a  man  —  what  a  lot  is  this  ! 

How  pointed,  how  poignant  the 
contrast  between  a  hero  on  the 
boards  and  a  hero  in  the  streets ! 
In  the  world's  theatre  the  man  who 
is  really  playing  the  leading  part  — 
did  we  but  know  it  —  is  too  often,  in 
the  general  estimate,  accounted  but 
one  of  the  supernumeraries,  a  figure 
in  dingy  attire,  who  might  well  be 


ACTORS.  125 

spared,  and  who  may  consider  him- 
self well  paid  with  a  pound  a  week. 
His  utterances  procure  no  silence. 
He  has  to  pronounce  them  as  best 
he  may,  whilst  the  gallery  sucks  its 
orange,  the  pit  pares  its  nails,  the 
boxes  babble,  and  the  stalls  yawn. 
Amidst  these  pleasant  distractions 
he  is  lucky  if  he  is  heard  at  all ;  and 
perhaps  the  best  thing  that  can  be- 
fall him  is  for  somebody  to  think 
him  worth  the  trouble  of  a  hiss.  As 
for  applause,  it  may  chance  with  such 
men,  if  they  live  long  enough,  as  it 
has  to  the  great  ones  who  have  pre- 
ceded them,  in  their  old  age, 

'  When  they  are  frozen  up  within,  and  quite 
The  phantom  of  themselves, 
To  hear  tlie  world  applaud  the  hollow  ghost 
Which  blamed  the  living  man.' 

The  great  actor  may  sink  to  sleep, 
soothed  by  the  memory  of  the  tears 
or  laughter  he  has  evoked,  and  wake 
to  find  the  day  far  advanced,  whose 


126  ACTORS. 

close  is  to  witness  the  repetition  of 
his  triumph  ;  but  the  great  man  will 
lie  tossing  and  turning  as  he  reflects 
on  the  seemingly  unequal  war  he  is 
waging  with  stupidity  and  prejudice, 
and  be  tempted  to  exclaim,  as  Milton 
tells  us  he  was,  with  the  sad  prophet 
Jeremy  :  '  Woe  is  me,  my  mother, 
'that  thou  hast  borne  me,  a  man  of 
'  strife  and  contention  ! ' 

The  upshot  of  all  this  is,  that  it  is 
a  pleasanter  thing  to  represent  great- 
ness than  to  be  great. 

But  the  actor's  calling  is  not  only 
pleasant  in  itself  —  it  gives  pleasure 
to  others.  In  this  respect,  how  fa- 
vourably it  contrasts  with  the  three 
learned  professions  ! 

Few  pleasures  are  greater  than 
to  witness  some  favourite  character, 
which  hitherto  has  been  but  vaguely 
bodied  forth  by  our  sluggish  imagi- 
nations, invested  with  all  the  graces 
of  living  man  or  woman.     A  distin- 


ACTORS.  127 

giiished  man  of  letters,  who  years 
ago  was  wisely  selfish  enough  to  rob 
the  stage  of  a  jewel  and  set  it  in  his 
own  crown,  has  addressed  to  his  wife 
some  radiant  lines  which  are  often 
on  my  lips  : 

'  Beloved,  whose  life  is  with  mine  own  entwined, 
In  whom,  whilst  yet  thou  wert  my  dream,   I 

viewed, 
Warm  with  the  life  of  breathing  womanhood, 
What  Shakespeare's  visionary  eye  divined  — 
Pure  Imogen  ;  high-hearted  Rosalind, 
Kindling  with  sunshine  the  dusk  greenwood  ; 
Or  changing  with  the  poet's  changing  mood, 
Juliet,  or  Constance  of  the  queenly  mind.' 

But  a  truce  to  these  compliments. 

'  I  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to  praise  him.' 

It  is  idle  to  shirk  disagreeable 
questions,  and  the  one  I  have  to  ask 
is  this,  '  Has  the  world  been  wrong 
in  regarding  with  disfavour  and  lack 
of  esteem  the  great  profession  of  the 
stage .'' ' 

That  the  world,  ancient  and  mod- 
ern, has  despised  the  actor's  profes- 
sion cannot  be  denied.     An  affectins: 


I2S  ACTORS. 

Story  I  read  many  years  ago  —  in  that 
elegant  and  entertaining  work,  Lem- 
pricre's  'Classical  Dictionary'  —  well 
illustrates  the  feeling  of  the  Roman 
world.  Julius  Decimus  Laberius  was 
a  Roman  knight  and  dramatic  au- 
thor, famous  for  his  mimes,  who  had 
the  misfortune  to  irritate  a  greater 
Julius,  the  author  of  the  'Commen- 
taries,' when  the  latter  was  at  the 
height  of  his  power.  Caesar,  casting 
about  how  best  he  might  humble  his 
adversary,  could  think  of  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  condemn  him  to  take  a 
leading  part  in  one  of  his  own  plays. 
Laberius  entreated  in  vain.  Caesar 
was  obdurate,  and  had  his  way.  La- 
berius played  his  part  —  how,  Lem- 
priere  sayeth  not ;  but  he  also  took 
his  revenge,  after  the  most  effectual 
of  all  fashions,  the  literary.  He  com- 
posed and  delivered  a  prologue  of 
considerable  power,  in  which  he  re- 
cords the  act  of  spiteful  tyranny,  and 


ACTORS.  129 

which,  oddly  enough,  is  the  only 
specimen  of  his  dramatic  art  that 
has  come  down  to  us.  It  contains 
lines  which,  though  they  do  not 
seem  to  have  made  Caesar,  who  sat 
smirking  in  the  stalls,  blush  for  him- 
self, make  us,  1,900  years  afterwards, 
blush  for  Caesar.  The  only  lines, 
however,  now  relevant  are,  being  in- 
terpreted, as  follow : 

'After  having  lived  sixty  years 
'with  honour,  I  left  my  home  this 
'morning  a  Roman  knight,  but  I 
'  shall  return  to  it  this  evening  an 
*  infamous  stage  -  player.  Alas  !  I 
'have  lived  a  day  too  long.' 

Turning  to  the  modern  world, 
and  to  England,  we  find  it  here  the 
popular  belief  that  actors  are  by 
statute  rogues,  vagabonds,  and  sturdy 
beggars.  This,  it  is  true,  is  founded 
on  a  misapprehension  of  the  effect 
of  39  Eliz.  chap.  4,  which  only  pro- 
vides that  common  players  wander- 
9 


130  ACTORS. 

ing  abroad  without  authority  to  play, 
shall  be  taken  to  be  *  rogues  and 
vagabonds  ; '  a  distinction  which  one 
would  have  thought  was  capable  of 
being  perceived  even  by  the  blunted 
faculties  of  the  lay  mind.* 

But  the  fact  that  the  popular  be- 
lief rests  upon  a  misreading  of  an  Act 
of  Parliament  three  hundred  years 
old  does  not  affect  the  belief,  but  only 
makes  it  exquisitely  English,  and  as 
a  consequence  entirely  irrational. 

Is  there  anything  to  be  said  in  sup- 
port of  this  once  popular  prejudice  .■' 

It  may,  I  think,  be  supported  by 
two  kinds  of  argument.  One  de- 
rived from  the  nature  of  the  case, 
the  other  from  the  testimony  of  ac- 
tors themselves. 

A  serious  objection  to  an  actor's 
calling  is  that  from  its  nature  it  ad- 
mits of  no  other  test  of  failure  or  suc- 
cess than   the  contemporary  opinion 

*  See  note  at  end  of  Essay. 


ACTORS.  131 

of  the  town.  This  in  itself  must  go 
far  to  rob  life  of  dignity.  A  Mil- 
ton may  remain  majestically  indiffer- 
ent to  the  '  barbarous  noise  '  of  '  owls 
and  cuckoos,  asses,  apes,  and  dogs,' 
but  the  actor  can  steel  himself  to  no 
such  fortitude.  He  can  lodge  no  ap- 
peal to  posterity.  The  owls  must 
hoot,  the  cuckoos  cry,  the  apes  yell, 
and  the  dogs  bark  on  his  side,  or  he 
is  undone.  This  is  of  course  inevi- 
table, but  it  is  an  unfortunate  condi- 
tion of  an  artist's  life. 

Again,  no  record  of  his  art  sur- 
vives to  tell  his  tale  or  account  for 
his  fame.  When  old  gentlemen  wax 
garrulous  over  actors  dead  and  gone, 
young  gentlemen  grow  somnolent. 
Chippendale  the  cabinet  -  maker  is 
more  potent  than  Garrick  the  actor. 
The  vivacity  of  the  latter  no  longer 
charms  (save  in  Boswell)  ;  the  chairs 
of  the  former  still  render  rest  impos- 
sible in  a  hundred  homes. 


132  ACTORS. 

This,  perhaps,  is  why  no  man  of 
lofty  genius  or  character  has  ever 
condescended  to  remain  an  actor. 
His  lot  pressed  heavily  even  on  so 
mercurial  a  trifler  as  David  Garrick, 
who  has  given  utterance  to  the  feel- 
ing in  lines  as  good  perhaps  as  any 
ever  written  by  a  successful  player  : 

'  The  painter 's  dead,  yet  still  he  charms  the  eye, 
While  England  lives  his  fame  shall  never  die  ; 
But  he  who  struts  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
Can  scarce  protract  his  fame  thro'  half  an  age  ; 
Nor  pen  nor  pencil  can  the  actor  save  — 
Both  art  and  artist  have  one  common  grave.' 

But  the  case  must  be  carried  far- 
ther than  this,  for  the  mere  fact  that 
a  particular  pursuit  does  not  hold  out 
any  peculiar  attractions  for  soaring 
spirits  will  not  justify  us  in  calling 
that  pursuit  bad  names.  I  therefore 
proceed  to  say  that  the  ver}^  act  of 
acting,  i.  c,  the  art  of  mimicry,  or 
the  representation  of  feigned  emo- 
tions called  up  by  sham  situations,  is, 
in  itself,  an  occupation  an  educated 


ACTORS.  133 

man  should  be  slow  to  adopt  as  the 
profession  of  a  Hfe. 

I  believe  —  for  we  should  give  the 
world  as  well  as  the  devil  its  due  — 
that  it  is  to  a  feeling,  a  settled  per- 
suasion of  this  sort,  lying  deeper  than 
the  surface  brutalities  and  snobbish- 
nesses visible  to  all,  that  we  must 
attribute  the  contempt,  seemingly  so 
cruel  and  so  ungrateful,  the  world  has 
visited  upon  actors. 

I  am  no  great  admirer  of  beards, 
be  they  never  so  luxurious  or  glossy, 
yet  I  own  I  cannot  regard  off  the 
stage  the  closely  shaven  face  of  an 
actor  without  a  feeling  of  pity,  not 
akin  to  love.  Here,  so  I  cannot  help 
saying  to  myself,  is  a  man  who  has 
adopted  a  profession  whose  ver}'  first 
demand  upon  him  is  that  he  should 
destroy  his  own  identity.  It  is  not 
what  you  are,  or  what  by  study  you 
may  become,  but  how  few  obstacles 
you  present  to  the   getting  of  your- 


134  ACTORS. 

self  up  as  somebody  else,  that  settles 
the  question  of  your  fitness  for  the 
stage.  Smoothness  of  face,  mobility 
of  feature,  compass  of  voice — these 
things,  but  the  toys  of  other  trades, 
are  the  tools  of  this  one. 

Boswellites  will  remember  the 
name  of  Tom  Davies  as  one  of 
frequent  occurrence  in  the  great 
biography.  Tom  was  an  actor  of 
some  repute,  and  (so  it  was  said) 
read  *  Paradise  Lost '  better  than  any 
man  in  England.  One  evening, 
when  Johnson  was  lounging  behind 
the  scenes  at  Drury  (it  was,  I  hope, 
before  his  pious  resolution  to  go 
there  no  more),  Davies  made  his 
appearance  on  his  way  to  the  stage 
in  all  the  majesty  and  millinery  of 
his  part.  The  situation  is  picturesque. 
The  great  and  dingy  Reality  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  the  Immortal, 
and  the  bedizened  little  player, 
*  Well,    Tom,'    said    the   great    man 


ACTORS.  135 

(and  this  is  the  whole  story),  '  well, 
Tom,  and  what  art  thou  to-night?' 
'What  art  thou  to-night?'  It  may 
sound  rather  like  a  tract,  but  it  will, 
I  think,  be  found  difficult  to  find  an 
answer  to  the  question  consistent 
with  any  true  view  of  human  dignity. 

Our  last  argument  derived  from 
the  nature  of  the  case  is,  that  delibe- 
rately to  set  yourself  as  the  occupa- 
tion of  your  life  to  amuse  the  adult 
and  to  astonish,  or  even  to  terrif}', 
the  infant  population  of  your  native 
land,  is  to  degrade  yourself. 

Three-fourths  of  the  acted  drama 
is,  and  always  must  be,  comedy, 
farce,  and  burlesque.  We  are  bored 
to  death  by  the  huge  inanities  of 
life.  We  observe  with  horror  that 
our  interest  in  our  dinner  becomes 
languid.  We  consult  our  doctor, 
who  simulates  an  interest  in  our 
stale  symptoms,  and  after  a  little 
talk  about  Dr.  Diet,  Dr.  Quiet,  and 


136  ACTORS. 

Dr.  Merriman,  prescribes  Toole.  If 
we  are  very  innocent  we  may  inquire 
what  night  we  are  to  go,  but  if  we  do 
we  are  at  once  told  that  it  doesn't  in 
the  least  matter  when  we  go,  for  it  is 
always  equally  funny.  Poor  Toole  ! 
to  be  made  up  every  night  as  a  safe 
prescription  for  the  blues  !  To  make 
people  laugh  is  not  necessarily  a 
crime,  but  to  adopt  as  your  trade  the 
making  people  laugh  by  delivering 
for  a  hundred  nights  together  an- 
other man's  jokes,  in  a  costume  the 
author  of  the  jokes  would  blush  to 
be  seen  in,  seems  to  me  a  somewhat 
unworthy  proceeding  on  the  part  of 
a  man  of  character  and  talent. 

To  amuse  the  British  public  is  a 
task  of  herculean  difficulty  and  dan- 
ger, for  the  blatant  monster  is,  at 
times,  as  whimsical  and  coy  as  a 
maiden,  and  if  it  once  makes  up  its 
mind  not  to  be  amused,  nothing  will 
shake  it.     The  labour   is  enormous, 


ACTORS.  137 

the  sacrifice  beyond  what  is  demand- 
ed of  saints.  And  if  you  succeed, 
what  is  your  reward  ?  Read  the 
lives  of  comedians,  and  closing  them, 
you  will  see  what  good  reason  an  ac- 
tor has  for  exclaiming  with  the  old- 
world  poet  : 

'  Odi  profanuni  valgus  ! 

We  now  turn  to  the  testimony  of 
actors  themselves. 

Shakespeare  is,  of  course,  my  first 
witness.  There  is  surely  significance 
in  this.  '  Others  abide  our  question,' 
begins  Arnold's  fine  sonnet  on  Shake- 
speare—  'others  abide  our  question  ; 
thou  art  free.'  The  little  we  know 
about  our  greatest  poet  has  become  a 
commonplace.  It  is  a  striking  tribute 
to  the  endless  loquacity  of  man,  and 
a  proof  how  that  great  creature  is  not 
to  be  deprived  of  his  talk,  that  he  has 
managed  to  write  quite  as  much  about 
there  being  nothing  to  write  about  as 


138  ACTORS. 

he  could  have  written  about  Shake- 
speare, if  the  author  of  Hamlet  had 
been  as  great  an  egoist  as  Rousseau, 
The  fact,  however,  remains  that  he 
who  has  told  us  most  about  ourselves, 
whose  genius  has  made  the  whole 
civilized  world  kin,  has  told  us  no- 
thing about  himself,  except  that  he 
hated  and  despised  the  stage.  To 
say  that  he  has  told  us  this  is  not,  I 
think,  any  exaggeration.  I  have,  of 
course,  in  mind  the  often  quoted  lines 
to  be  found  in  that  sweet  treasury 
of  melodious  verse  and  deep  feeling, 
the  '  Sonnets  of  Shakespeare.'  The 
iioth  begins  thus  : 

'  Alas  !  'tis  true  I  have  gone  here  and  there, 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 
Gor'd  my  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most 

dear, 
Made  old  offences  of  affections  new.' 

And  the  iiith  : 

'  O  for  my  sake  do  thou  with  P'ortuue  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds. 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than    public    means,    which    public    manners 
breeds. 


ACTORS.  139 

Thence  comes  it  tliat  my  name  receives  a  I)raiKi, 
And  almost  tlicncc  my  nature  is  sul)(iuc<l 
'I'o  wliat  it  woi  ks  un,  like  the  dyer's  hand. 
Pity  me,  then,  and  wish  I  were  renewed.' 

It  is  not  much  short  of  three  cen- 
turies since  those  lines  were  written, 
but  they  seem  still  to  bubble  with  a 
scorn  which  may  indeed  be  called 
immortal. 

'  Sold  cheap  what  is  most  dear.' 

There,  compressed  in  half  a  line,  is 
the  whole  case  against  an  actor's  call- 
ing. 

But  it  may  be  said  Shakespeare 
was  but  a  poor  actor.  He  could 
write  Hamlet  and  As  You  Like  It ; 
but  when  it  came  to  casting  the 
parts,  the  Ghost  in  the  one  and  old 
Adam  in  the  other  were  the  best  he 
could  aspire  to.  Verbose  biographers 
of  Shakespeare,  in  their  dire  extre- 
mity, and  naturally  desirous  of  writ- 
ing a  big  book  about  a  big  man,  have 
remarked  at  length  that  it  was  highly 
creditable  to  Shakespeare  that  he  was 


140  ACTORS. 

not,  or  at  all  events  that  it  does  not 
appear  that  he  was,  jealous,  after  the 
true  theatrical  tradition,  of  his  more 
successful  brethren  of  the  buskin. 

It  surely  might  have  occured,  even 
to  a  verbose  biographer  in  his  direst 
need,  that  to  have  had  the  wit  to 
write  and  actually  to  have  written 
the  soliloquies  in  Hamlet,  might  con- 
sole a  man  under  heavier  afflictions 
than  the  knowledge  that  in  the  pop- 
ular estimate  somebody  else  spouted 
those  soliloquies  better  than  he  did 
himself.  I  can  as  easily  fancy  Milton 
jealous  of  Tom  Davies  as  Shakespeare 
of  Richard  Burbage.  But  —  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent  —  Shakespeare  was 
an  actor,  and  as  such  I  tender  his 
testimony. 

I  now  —  for  really  this  matter  must 
be  cut  short  —  summon  pell-mell  all 
the  actors  and  actresses  who  have 
ever  strutted  their  little  hour  on  the 
stage,  and  put  to  them  the  following 


ACrOKS.  141 

comprehensive  question  :  Is  there  in 
your  midst  one  who  had  an  honest, 
hearty,  downright  pride  and  pleasure 
in  your  calHng,  or  do  not  you  all  (tell 
the  truth)  mournfully  echo  the  lines 
of  your  great  master  (whom  nevcr- 
tl-'cless  you  never  really  cared  for), 
and  with  him 

'  Vour  fortunes  chide, 
That  did  not  better  for  your  lives  ]5rovide 
Tlian  public  means,  which  public  manners  breeds.* 

They  all  assent :  with  wonderful  una- 
nimity. 

But,  seriously,  I  know  of  no  re- 
corded exception,  unless  it  be  Thomas 
Betterton,  who  held  the  stage  for  half 
a  century — from  1661  to  1708  —  and 
who  still  lives,  as  much  as  an  actor 
can,  in  the  pages  of  Colley  Gibber's 
Apology.  He  was  a  man  apparently 
of  simple  character,  for  he  had  only 
one  benefit-night  all  his  life. 

Who  else  is  there  .■'  Read  Mac- 
ready's  *  Memoirs  '  —  the    King  Ar- 


142  ACTORS. 

thur  of  the  stage.  You  will  find 
there,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  all  the  ac- 
tor's faults  —  if  faults  they  can  be 
called  which  seem  rather  hard  neces- 
sities, the  discolouring  of  the  dyer's 
hand  ;  greedy  hungering  after  ap- 
plause, endless  egotism,  grudging 
praise  —  all  are  there;  not  perhaps 
in  the  tropical  luxuriance  they  have 
attained  elsewhere,  but  plain  enough. 
But  do  we  not  also  find,  deeply  en- 
grained and  constant,  a  sense  of  de- 
gradation, a  longing  to  escape  from 
the  stage  for  ever .'' 

He  did  not  like  his  children  to 
come  and  see  him  act,  and  was  al- 
ways regretting  —  heaven  help  him  ! 
—  that  he  wasn't  a  barrister-at-law. 
Look  upon  this  picture  and  on  that. 
Here  we  have  Macbeth,  that  mighty 
thane  ;  Hamlet,  the  intellectual  sym- 
bol of  the  whole  world  of  modern 
thought ;  Strafford,  in  Robert  Brown- 
ing's  fine    play  ;    splendid    dresses, 


ACTORS.  143 

crowded  theatres,  bcnutiful  women, 
royal  audiences ;  and  on  the  other 
side,  a  rusty  cjown,  a  musty  wig,  a 
fusty  court,  a  deaf  judge,  an  indiffer- 
ent jury,  a  dispute  about  a  bill  of  lad- 
ing, and  ten  guineas  on  your  brief  — 
which  you  have  not  been  paid,  and 
which  you  can't  recover  —  why,  ''tis 
Hyperion  to  a  satyr  ! ' 

Again,  we  find  Mrs.  Siddons  writ- 
ing of  her  sister's  marriage  : 

'  I  have  lost  one  of   the  sweetest 

*  companions  in  the  world.  She  has 
'married  a  respectable  man,  though 

*  of  small  fortune.  I  thank  God  she 
'  is  off  the  stage.'  What  is  this  but 
to  say,  '  l^etter  the  most  humdrum  of 
'existences  with  the  most  "respect- 
'able  of  men,"  than  to  be  upon  the 
'  stage '  ? 

The  volunteered  testimony  of  ac- 
tors is  both  large  in  bulk  and  valu- 
able in  quality,  and  it  is  all  on  my 
side. 


144  ACTORS. 

Their  involuntary  testimony  I  pass 
over  lightly.  Far  be  from  me  the  dis- 
gusting and  ungenerous  task  of  rak- 
ing up  a  heap  of  the  weaknesses,  va- 
nities, and  miserablenesses  of  actors 
and  actresses  dead  and  gone.  After 
life's  fitful  fever  they  sleep  (I  trust) 
well  ;  and  in  common  candour,  it 
ought  never  to  be  forgotten  that 
whilst  it  has  always  been  the  fash- 
ion —  until  one  memorable  day  Mr. 
Froude  ran  amuck  of  it — for  biog- 
raphers to  shroud  their  biographees 
(the  American  Minister  must  bear 
the  brunt  of  this  word  on  his  broad 
shoulders)  in  a  crape  veil  of  respect- 
ability, the  records  of  the  stage  have 
been  written  in  another  spirit.  We 
always  know  the  worst  of  an  actor, 
seldom  his  best.  David  Garrick  was 
a  better  man  than  Lord  Eldon,  and 
Macready  was  at  least  as  good  as 
Dickens. 

There  is  however,  one  portion  of 


ACTORS.  145 

this  body  of  involuntary  testimony 
on  which  I  must  be  allowed  to  rely, 
for  it  may  be  referred  to  without  of- 
fence. 

Our  dramatic  literature  is  our 
greatest  literature.  It  is  the  best 
thing  we  have  done.  Dante  may 
over -top  Milton,  but  Shakespeare 
surpasses  both.  He  is  our  finest 
achievement ;  his  plays  our  noblest 
possession  ;  the  things  in  the  world 
most  worth  thinking  about.  To  live 
daily  in  his  company,  to  study  his 
works  with  minute  and  loving  care 
—  in  no  spirit  of  pedantry  searching 
for  double  endings,  but  in  order  to 
discover  their  secret,  and  to  make 
the  spoken  word  tell  upon  the  hearts 
of  man  and  woman  —  this  might  have 
been  expected  to  produce  great  intel- 
lectual if  not  moral  results. 

The  most  magnificent  compliment 
ever  paid  by  man  to  woman  is  un- 
doubtedly Steele's  to  the  Lady  Eliza- 


146  ACTORS. 

beth  Hastings.  'To  love  her,'  wrote 
he,  '  is  a  liberal  education.'  As 
much  might  surely  be  said  of  Shake- 
speare. 

But  what  are  the  facts  —  the  ugly, 
hateful  facts  ?  Despite  this  great 
advantage  —  this  close  familiarity 
with  the  noblest  and  best  in  our 
literature  —  the  taste  of  actors,  their 
critical  judgment,  always  has  been 
and  still  is,  if  not  beneath  contempt, 
at  all  events  far  below  the  average 
intelligence  of  their  day.  By  taste,  I 
do  not  mean  taste  in  flounces  and  in 
furbelows,  tunics  and  stockings  ;  but 
in  the  weightier  matters  of  the  truly 
sublime  and  the  essentially  ridiculous. 
Salvini's  Macbeth  is  undoubtedly  a 
fine  performance  ;  and  yet  that  great 
actor,  as  the  result  of  his  study,  has 
placed  it  on  record  that  he  thinks 
the  sleep-walking  scene  ought  to  be 
assigned  to  Macbeth  instead  of  to 
his  wife.  Shades  of  Shakespeare  and 
Siddons,  what  think  you  of  that .-' 


ACTORS.  147 

It  is  a  strange  fatality,  but  a  proof 
of  the  inherent  pettiness  of  the  actor's 
art,  that  though  it  places  its  votary 
in  the  very  midst  of  literary  and 
artistic  influences,  and  of  necessity 
informs  him  of  the  best  and  worthiest, 
he  is  yet,  so  far  as  his  own  culture  is 
concerned,  left  out  in  the  cold  —  art's 
slave,  not  her  child. 

What  have  the  devotees  of  the 
drama  taught  us  ?  Nothing  !  it  is  we 
who  have  taught  them.  We  go  first, 
and  they  come  lumbering  after.  It 
was  not  from  the  stage  the  voice  arose 
bidding  us  recognise  the  supremacy 
of  Shakespeare's  genius.  Actors 
first  ignored  him,  then  hideously 
mutilated  him  ;  and  though  now  oc- 
casionally compelled,  out  of  deference 
to  the  taste  of  the  day,  to  forego  their 
green-room  traditions,  to  forswear 
their  Tate  and  Brady  emendations,  in 
their  heart  of  hearts  they  love  him 
not ;  and  it  is  with  a  light  step  and  a 


148  ACTORS. 

smiling  face  that  our  great  living 
tragedian  flings  aside  Hamlet's  tunic 
or  Shylock's  gaberdine  to  revel  in 
the  melodramatic  glories  of  TJic  Bells 
and  TJie  Corsican  Brothers. 

Our  gratitude  is  due  in  this  great 
matter  to  men  of  letters,  not  to 
actors.  If  it  be  asked,  '  What  have 
actors  to  do  with  literature  and 
criticism?'  I  answer,  'Nothing;'  and 
add,  '  That  is  my  case' 

But  the  notorious  bad  taste  of 
actors  is  not  entirely  due  to  their 
living  outside  Literature,  with  its 
words  for  ever  upon  their  lips,  but 
none  of  its  truths  engraven  on  their 
hearts.  It  may  partly  be  accounted 
for  by  the  fact  that  for  the  purposes 
of  an  ambitious  actor  bad  plays  are 
the  best. 

In  reading  actors'  lives,  nothing 
strikes  you  more  than  their  delight 
in  making  a  hit  in  some  part  nobody 
ever    thought    anything    of    before. 


ACTORS.  149 

Garrick  was  proud  past  all  endurance 
of  his  Beverley  in  the  Gamester,  and 
one  can  easily  see  why.  Until  people 
saw  Garrick's  Beverley,  they  didn't 
think  there  was  anything  in  the 
Gamester;  nor  was  there,  except  what 
Garrick  put  there.  This  is  called 
creating  a  part,  and  he  is  the  greatest 
actor  who  creates  most  parts. 

But  genius  in  the  author  of  the 
play  is  a  terrible  obstacle  in  the  way 
of  an  actor  who  aspires  to  identify 
himself  once  and  for  all  with  the 
leading  part  in  it.  Mr.  Irving  may 
act  Hamlet  well  or  ill  —  and,  for  my 
part,  I  think  he  acts  it  exceedingly 
well  —  but  behind  Mr.  Irving's  Ham- 
let, as  behind  everybody  else's  Ham- 
let, there  looms  a  greater  Hamlet 
than  them  all  —  Shakespeare's  Ham- 
let, the  real  Hamlet. 

But  Mr.  Irving's  Mathias  is  quite 
another  kettle  of  fish,  all  of  Mr.  Ir- 
ving's own  catching.     Who  ever,  on 


ISO  ACTORS. 

leaving  the  Lyceum,  after  seeing  The 
Bells,  was  heard  to  exclaim,  '  It  is  all 
mighty  fine  ;  but  that  is  not  my  idea 
of  Mathias  '  ?  Do  not  we  all  feel  that 
without  Mr.  Irving  there  could  be  no 
Mathias  ? 

We  best  like  doing  what  we  do 
best  :  and  an  actor  is  not  to  be 
blamed  for  preferring  the  task  of 
making  much  of  a  very  little  to  that 
of  making  little  of  a  great  deal. 

As  for  actresses,  it  surely  would  be 
the  height  of  ungenerosity  to  blame 
a  woman  for  following  the  only  regu- 
lar profession  commanding  fame  and 
fortune  the  kind  consideration  of 
man  has  left  open  to  her.  For  two 
centuries  women  have  been  free  to 
follow  this  profession,  onerous  and 
exacting  though  it  be,  and  by  doing 
so  have  won  the  rapturous  applause 
of  generations  of  men,  who  are  all 
ready  enough  to  believe  that  where 
their  pleasure  is  involved,  no  risks  of 


ACTORS.  151 

life  or  honour  are  too  ^xq.?X  for  a 
woman  to  run.  It  is  only  when  the 
latter,  tired  of  the  sliams  of  life, 
would  pursue  the  realities,  that  we 
become  alive  to  the  fact — hitherto, 
I  suppose,  studiously  concealed  from 
us  —  how  frail  and  feeble  a  creature 
she  is. 

Lastly,  it  must  not  be  forj^otten 
that  we  are  discussing  a  question  of 
casuistry,  one  which  is  '  stuff  o'  the 
conscience,'  and  where  consec|ucntly 
words  arc  all  important. 

Is  an  actor's  calling  an  eminently 
worthy  one  .•*  —  that  is  the  question. 
It  may  be  lawful,  useful,  delightful  ; 
but  is  it  worthy  } 

An  actor's  life  is  an  artist's  life. 
No  artist,  however  eminent,  has  more 
than  one  life,  or  does  anything  worth 
doing  in  that  life,  unless  he  is  pre- 
pared to  spend  it  royally  in  the  ser- 
vice of  his  art,  caring  for  nought  else. 
Is  an  actor's  art  worth  the  price  .''  I 
answer,  No  ! 


152  ACTORS. 


VAGABONDS  AND  PLAYERS. 

The  Statute  Law  on  this  subject  is  not  without 
interest.  Stated  shortly  it  stands  thus  :  By  39 
Eliz.  c.  4,  it  was  enacted,  'That  all  persons  call- 
'  ing  themselves  Schollers  going  abroad  begging 
' ...  all  idle  persons  using  any  subtile  craft  or 
'  fayning  themselves  to  have  knowledge  in  Phisi- 
'  ognomye,  Palmestry,  or  other  like  crafty  science  ; 
'  or  pretending  that  they  can  tell  Destyneyes, 
'  Fortunes,  or  such  other  like  fantasticall  Ymagy- 
'  naeons  ;  all  Fencers,  Bea.rwai-ds,  commo/i  f/ayers 
'  of  Interludes  and  Minstrels  ivandc7-ing  abroad 
'  (other  than  players  of  Interludes  belonging  to 
'  any  Baron  of  this  realm,  or  any  honourable  per- 
'  sonage  of  greater  degree  to  be  auctorised  to 
'  play  under  the  hand  and  seale  of  Arms  of  such 
'Baron  or  Personage);  all  Juglers,  Tinkers, 
'  Pedlars,  and  Petty  Chapmen  wandering  abroad 
'.  .  .  shall  be  taken,  adjudged,  and  deemed 
'  Rogues,  Vagabonds,  and  Sturdy  Beggars,  and 
'  shall  sustain  such  payne  and  punyshment  as  by 
'this  Act  is  in  that  behalf  appointed.' 

Such  '  payne  and  ]3unyshment '  was  as  follows  : 

'To  be  stripped  naked  from  the  middle  up- 
'  wards,  and  shall  be  openly  whipped  until  his  or 
'  her  body  be  bloudye,  and  shall  be  forthwith  sent 
'  from  parish  to  parish  by  the  officers  of  every 
'  the  same  the  next  streghte  way  to  the  parish 
'where  he  was  borne.  After  which  whipping 
'  the  same  person  shall  have  a  Testimonyall  tes- 
'  tifying  that  he  has  been  punyshed  according  to 
'  law.' 

This  statute  was  repealed  by  13  Anne  c.  26, 
which,  however,  includes  within  its  new  scope 
'  common  players  of  Interludes,'  and  names  no  ex- 
ceptions. The  whipping  continues,  but  there  is 
an  alternative  in  the  House  of  Correction  :  '  to  be 


ACTORS.  153 

'stript  naked  from  the  niicldle,  and  be  openly 
'whipped  iniiil  liis  or  her  body  be  bloody,  01  may 
'be  sent  to  the  House  of  Correction.'  17  Geo.  11. 
c.  5  repeals  a  previous  statute  of  the  same  king 
wiiich  had  repealed  the  statute  of  Anne,  and  pro- 
vides that  '  all  common  players  of  Interludes  and 
'  all  persons  who  shall  for  Hire,  Gain,  or  Reward 
'act,  represent,  or  perform  any  Interlude,  Tra- 
'  geily,  Comedy,  Opera,  Play,  Farce,  or  other  En- 
'  tertainmcnt  of  the  Sta^e.  not  being  authorized 
'by  law,  shall  be  deemed  Rogues  and  Vagabonds 
'  within  the  true  meaning  of  the  Act.'  The  ])un- 
ishment  was  to  lie  '  publicly  whipt,'  or  to  be  sent 
to  the  House  of  Correction.  This  Act  has  been 
repealed,  and  the  law  is  regulated  by  5  Geo.  IV. 
c.  S3,  which  makes  no  mention  of  actors,  who 
are  therefore  now  wholly  quit  of  this  odious  im- 
putation. 


A  ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

One  is  often  tempted  of  the  Devil  to 
forswear  the  study  of  history  alto- 
gether as  the  pursuit  of  the  Unknow- 
able. '  How  is  it  possible,'  he  whis- 
pers in  our  ear,  as  we  stand  gloomily 
regarding  the  portly  calf-bound  vol- 
umes without  which  no  gentleman's 
library  is  complete,  '  how  is  it  possi- 
'  ble  to  suppose  that  you  have  there, 
'  on  your  shelves  —  the  actual  facts  of 
'history  —  a  true  record  of  what  men, 
'dead  long  ago,  felt  and  thought?' 
Yet,  if  we  have  not,  I  for  one,  though 
of  a  literary  turn,  would  sooner  spend 
my  leisure  playing  skittles  with  boors 
than  in  reading  sonorous  lies  in  stout 
volumes. 

'  It  is  not  so  much,'  wilily  insinuates 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  155 

the  Tempter,  'that  these  renowned 
'  authors  lack  kno\vledj;e.  Their 
'habit  of  giving  an  occasional  relcr- 
'  ence  (though  the  verification  of 
'these  is  usually  left  to  the  malig- 
'  nancy  of  a  rival  and  less  popular 
'  historian)  argues  at  least  some  read- 
'  ing.  No  ;  what  is  wanting  is  igno- 
'  ranee,  carefully  acquired  and  studi- 
'ously  maintained.     This  is   no  para- 

*  dox.  To  carry  the  truisms,  theories, 
'laws,  language  of  to-day,  along  with 
'you  in  your  historical  pursuits,  is  to 
'turn  the  muse  of  history  upside 
'  down  —  a  most  disrespectful  pro- 
'  ceeding  —  and  yet  to  ignore  them  — 

*  to  forget  all  about  them  —  to  hang 
'  them  up  with  your  hat  and  coat 
'  in  the  hall,  to  remain  there  whilst 
'  you  sit  in  the  library  composing 
'  your  immortal  work,  which  is  so 
'happily  to  combine  all  that  is  best 
'in  Gibbon  and  IMacaulay  —  a  sneer- 
'less  Gibbon   and  an  impartial  Ma- 


156  A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

'  caulay  — is  a  task  which,  if  it  be  not 
'  impossible  is,  at  all  events,  of   huge 

*  difficulty. 

'  Another  blemish  in  English  his- 
'torical  work  has  been  noticed  by  the 
'  Rev,  Charles  Kingsley,  and  may 
'  therefore  be  referred  to  by  me  with- 
'out  offence.     Your   standard   histo- 

*  rians,  having  no  unnatural  regard  for 
'  their  most  indefatigable  readers,  the 
'  wives  and  daughters  of  England, 
'feel  it  incumbent  upon  them  to  pass 
'over,  as  unfit  for  dainty  ears  and 
'dulcet  tones,  facts,  and  rumours  of 
'  facts,  which  none  the  less  often  de- 
'  termined  events  by  stirring  the 
'  strong  feelings  of  your  ancestors, 
'  whose  conduct,  unless  explained  by 
'  this  light,  must  remain  enigmatical. 

'  When,  to  these,  anachronisms  of 
'thought  and  omissions  of  fact,  you 
'  have  added  the  dishonesty  of  the 
'partisan  historian  and  the  false 
'glamour  of  the  picturesque  one,  you 


A   ROGTE'S  MEMOIRS.  157 

'will  be  SO  good  as  to  proceed  to  find 
'the  present  value  of  history  !' 
Thus  far  the  Enemy  of  Mankind  : 
An  adniiraijle  lady  orator  is  re- 
ported lately  to  have  '  brought  down  ' 
I'^xeter  Hall  by  observing,  '  in  a  low 
but  [penetrating  voice,'  that  the  Devil 
was  a  very  stupid  jicrson.  It  is  true 
that  Ben  Jonson  is  on  the  side  of 
the  lady,  but  I  am  far  too  orthodox 
to  entertain  any  such  opinion  ;  and 
though  I  have,  in  this  instance  of 
history,  so  far  resisted  him  as  to  have 
refrained  from  sending  my  standard 
historians  to  the  auction  mart  — 
where,  indeed,  with  the  almost  single 
exception  of  Mr.  Grote's  History  of 
Greece  (the  octavo  edition  in  twelve 
volumes),  prices  rule  so  low  as  to 
make  cartage  a  consideration  —  I 
have  still  of  late  found  myself  turn- 
ing off  the  turnpike  of  history  to 
loiter  down  the  primrose  paths  of 
men's  memoirs  of  themselves  and 
their  times. 


158  A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

Here  at  least,  so  we  argue,  we  are 
.comparatively  safe.  Anachronisms 
of  thought  are  impossible  ;  omissions 
out  of  regard  for  female  posterity  un- 
likely, and  as  for  party  spirit,  if  found, 
it  forms  part  of  what  lawyers  call  the 
7'es  gcst(B,  and  has  therefore  a  value 
of  its  own.  Against  the  perils  of  the 
picturesque,  who  will  insure  us  ? 

But  when  we  have  said  all  this, 
and,  sick  of  prosing,  would  begin  read- 
ing, the  number  of  really  readable 
memoirs  is  soon  found  to  be  but  few. 
This  is,  indeed,  unfortunate  ;  for  it 
launches  us  off  on  another  prose- 
journey  by  provoking  the  question, 
What  makes  memoirs  interesting } 

Is  it  necessary  that  they  should 
be  the  record  of  a  noble  character } 
Certainly  not.  We  remember  Pepys, 
who  —  well,  never  mind  what  he  does. 
We  call  to  mind  Cellini ;  Jic  runs  be- 
hind a  fellow-creature,  and  with  'ad- 
mirable address '  sticks  a  dagger  in 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  159 

the  nape  of  his  neck,  and  long  after- 
wards records  the  fact,  ahnost  with 
reverence,  in  his  Hfe's  story.  Can 
anything  be  more  revolting  than  some 
portions  of  the  revelation  Benjamin 
Franklin  was  pleased  to  make  of 
himself  in  writing  ?  And  what  about 
Rousseau  ?  Yet,  when  we  have 
pleaded  guilty  for  these  men,  a 
modern  Savonarola,  who  had  per- 
suaded us  to  make  a  bonfire  of  their 
works,  would  do  well  to  keep  a  sharp 
look-out,  lest  at  the  last  moment  we 
should  be  found  substituting  'Pear- 
son on  the  Creed  '  for  Pepys,  Cole- 
ridge's 'Friend'  for  Cellini,  John  Fos- 
ter's Essays  for  Franklin,  and  Roget's 
Bridgewater  Treatise  for  Rousseau. 

Neither  will  it  do  to  suppose  that 
the  interest  of  a  memoir  depends  on 
its  writer  having  been  concerned  in 
great  affairs,  or  lived  in  stirring  times. 
The  dullest  memoirs  written  even  in 
English,    and    not    excepting    those 


i6o  A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

maimed  records  of  life  known  as  're- 
ligious biography,'  are  the  work  of 
men  of  the  '  attache '  order,  who,  hav- 
ing been  mixed  up  in  events  which 
the  newspapers  of  the  day  chronicled 
as  '  Important  Intelligence,'  were  not 
unnaturally  led  to  cherish  the  belief 
that  people  would  like  to  have  from 
their  pens  full,  true  and  particular 
accounts  of  all  that  then  happened, 
or,  as  they,  if  moderns,  would  pro- 
bably prefer  to  say,  transpired.  But 
the  World,  whatever  an  over  -  bold 
Exeter  Hall  may  say  of  her  old  asso- 
ciate the  Devil,  is  not  a  stupid  person, 
and  declines  to  be  taken  in  twice  ;  and 
turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  most  pains- 
taking and  trustworthy  accounts  of 
deceased  Cabinets  and  silenced  Con- 
ferences, goes  journeying  along  her 
broad  way,  chuckling  over  some  old 
joke  in  Boswell,  and  reading  with 
fresh  delight  the  all  -  about  -  nothing 
letters  of  Cowper  and  Lamb. 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  i6i 

How  then  does  a  man  —  be  he  good 
or  bad — big  or  little  —  a  philosopher 
or  a  fribble — St.  Paul  or  Horace 
Walpole — make  his  memoirs  inter- 
esting ? 

To  say  that  the  one  thing  needful 
is  individuality,  is  not  quite  enough. 
To  be  an  individual  is  the  inevitable, 
and  in  most  cases  the  unenviable,  lot 
of  every  child  of  Adam.  Each  one 
of  us  has,  like  a  tin  soldier,  a  stand 
of  his  own.  To  have  an  individuality 
is  no  sort  of  distinction,  but  to  be 
able  to  make  it  felt  in  writing  is  not 
only  distinction  but  under  favouring 
circumstances  immortality. 

Have  we  not  all  some  correspon- 
dents, though  probably  but  few,  from 
whom  we  never  receive  a  letter  with- 
out feeling  sure  that  we  shall  find  in- 
side the  envelope  something  written 
that  will  make  us  either  glow  with 
the  warmth  or  shiver  with  the  cold 
of    our    correspondent's    life .''      But 


i62  A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

how  many  other  people  arc  to  be 
found,  good,  honest  people  too,  who 
no  sooner  take  pen  in  hand  than  they 
stamp  unreality  on  every  word  they 
write.  It  is  a  hard  fate,  but  they  can- 
not escape  it.  They  may  be  as  literal 
as  the  late  Earl  Stanhope,  as  pains- 
taking as  Bishop  Stubbs,  as  much 
in  earnest  as  the  Prime  Minister  — 
their  lives  may  be  noble,  their  aims 
high,  but  no  sooner  do  they  seek  to 
narrate  to  us  their  story,  than  we  find 
it  is  not  to  be.  To  hearken  to  them 
is  past  praying  for.  We  turn  from 
them  as  from  a  guest  who  has  out- 
stayed his  welcome.  Their  writing- 
wearies,  irritates,  disgusts. 

Here  then,  at  last,  we  have  the 
two  classes  of  memoir  writers  —  those 
who  manage  to  make  themselves  felt, 
and  those  who  do  not.  Of  the  latter, 
a  very  little  is  a  great  deal  too  much 
—  of  the  former  we  can  never  have 
enouo-h. 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  163 

What  a  liar  was  Benvcnuto  Cellini ! 
—  who  can  believe  a  word  he  says? 
To  hang  a  dog  on  his  oath  would  be 
a  judicial  murder.  Yet  when  we 
lay  down  his  Memoirs  and  let  our 
thoughts  travel  back  to  those  far-off 
days  he  tells  us  of,  there  we  see  him 
standing,  in  bold  relief,  against  the 
black  sky  of  the  past,  the  very  man 
he  was.  Not  more  surely  did  he, 
with  that  rare  skill  of  his,  stamp  the 
image  of  Clement  VII.  on  the  papal 
currency  than  he  did  the  impress  of 
his  own  singular  personality  upon 
every  word  he  spoke  and  every  sen- 
tence he  wrote. 

We  ought,  of  course,  to  hate  him, 
but  do  we  .-^  A  murderer  he  has 
written  himself  down.  A  liar  he 
stands  self-convicted  of  being.  Were 
anyone  in  the  nether  world  bold 
enough  to  call  him  thief,  it  may 
be  doubted  whether  Rhadamanthus 
would   award    him    the   damasres  for 


i64  A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

which  we  may  be  certain  he  would 
loudly  clamour.  Why  do  we  not  hate 
him  ?     Listen  to  him  : 

'  Upon  my  uttering  these  words, 
'  there  was  a  general  outcry,  the 
'noblemen  affirming  that  I  promised 
'too  much.     But  one   of  them,  who 

*  was  a  great  philosopher,  said  in 
'  my  favour,  "  From  the  admirable 
'symmetry  of  shape  and  happy 
'physiognomy  of  this  young  man,  I 
'  venture  to  engage  that  he  will  per- 
'  form   all    he   promises,   and    more." 

*  The  Pope  replied,  "  I  am  of  the 
'  same  opinion ; "  then  calling  Trajano, 
'his  gentleman  of  the  bed-chamber, 
'  he  ordered  him  to  fetch  me  five 
'  hundred  ducats.' 

And  so  it  always  ended  ;  suspicions, 
aroused  most  reasonably,  allayed 
most  unreasonably,  and  then  —  duc- 
ats. He  deserved  hanging,  but  he 
died  in  his  bed.  He  wrote  his  own 
memoirs   after  a  fashion  that  ought 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  165 

to  have  brought  posthumous  justice 
upon  _  him,  and  made  them  a  literary 
gibbet,  on  which  he  should  swing,  a 
creaking  horror,  for  all  time  ;  but 
nothing  of  the  sort  has  happened. 
The  rascal  is  so  symmetrical,  and 
his  physiognomy,  as  it  gleams  upon 
us  through  the  centuries,  so  happy, 
that  we  cannot  withhold  our  ducats, 
though  we  may  accompany  the  gift 
with  a  shower  of  abuse. 

This  only  proves  the  profundity  of 
an  observation  made  by  Mr.  Bagehot 
—  a  man  who  carried  away  into  the 
next  world  more  originality  of  thought 
than  is  now  to  be  found  in  the  Three 
Estates  of  the  Realm.  Whilst  re- 
marking upon  the  extraordinary  rep- 
utation of  the  late  Francis  Horner 
and  the  trifling  cost  he  was  put  to  in 
supporting  it,  Mr.  Bagehot  said  that 
it  proved  the  advantage  of  '  keeping 
an  atmosphere.' 

The  common  air  of  heaven  sharp- 


1 66  A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

ens  men's  judgments.  Poor  Horner, 
but  for  that  kept  atmosphere  of  his, 
always  surrounding  him,  would  have 
been  bluntly  asked,  *  What  he  had 
'done  since  he  was  breeched,*  and  in 
reply  he  could  only  have  muttered 
something  about  the  currency.  As 
for  our  especial  rogue  Cellini,  the 
question  would  probably  have  as- 
sumed this  shape  :  '  Rascal,  name 
'the  crime  you  have  not  committed, 
'  and  account  for  the  omission.' 

But  these  awkward  questions  are 
not  put  to  the  lucky  people  who  keep 
their  own  atmospheres.  The  critics, 
before  they  can  get  at  them,  have  to 
step  out  of  the  everyday  air,  where 
only  achievements  count  and  the  De- 
calogue still  goes  for  something,  into 
the  kept  atmosphere,  which  they 
have  no  sooner  breathed  than  they 
begin  to  see  things  differently,  and  to 
measure  the  object  thus  surrounded 
with  a  tape  of  its  own  manufacture. 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  167 

Horner  —  poor,  ugly,  a  man  neither 
of  words  nor  deeds  —  becomes  one  of 
our  great  men  ;  a  nation  mourns  his 
loss  and  erects  his  statue  in  the  Ab- 
bey. Mr.  Bagehot  gives  several  in- 
stances of  the  same  kind,  but  he  does 
not  mention  Cellini,  who  is,  however, 
in  his  own  way,  an  admirable  exam- 
ple. 

You  open  his  book  —  a  Pharisee  of 
the  Pharisees.  Lying  indeed  !  Why, 
you  hate  prevarication.  As  for  mur- 
der, your  friends  know  you  too  well 
to  mention  the  subject  in  your  hear- 
ing, except  in  immediate  connection 
with  capital  punishment.  You  are, 
of  course,  willing  to  make  some  al- 
lowance for  Cellini's  time  and  place 
—  the  first  half  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury and  Italy.  'Yes,'  you  remark, 
'  Cellini  shall  have  strict  justice  at 
*  my  hands.'  So  you  say  as  you  isettle 
yourself  in  your  chair  and  begin  to 
read.     We  seem   to  hear  the  rascal 


i68  A   KOGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

laughing  in  his  grave.  His  spirit 
breathes  upon  you  from  his  book  — 
peeps  at  you  roguishly  as  you  turn 
the  pages.  His  atmosphere  surrounds 
you  ;  you  smile  when  you  ought  to 
frown,  chuckle  when  you  should  groan, 
and  —  O  final  triumph  ! — laugh  aloud 
when,  if  you  had  a  rag  of  principle 
left,  you  would  fling  the  book  into 
the  fire.  Your  poor  moral  sense 
turns  away  with  a  sigh,  and  patiently 
awaits  the  conclusion  of  the  second 
volume. 

How  cautiously  does  he  begin,  how 
gently  does  he  win  your  ear  by  his 
seductive  piety  !  I  quote  from  Mr. 
Roscoe's  translation  :  — 

'  It  is  a  duty  incumbent  on  upright 

*  and  credible  men  of  all  ranks,  who 
'  have  performed  an3^thing  noble  or 
'  praiseworthy,  to  record,  in  their  own 

*  writing,  the  events  of  their  lives  ; 
'  yet  they  should  not  commence  this 
'  honourable  task  before    they  have 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  169 

*  passed  their  fortieth  year.  Such, 
'at  least,  is  my  opinion,  now  that  I 
'  have  completed  my  fifty-eighth  year, 
'and  am  settled  in  Florence,  where, 
'  considering  the  numerous  ills  that 
'constantly  attend  human  life,  I  per- 
'  ceive  that  I  have  never  before  been 
'  so  free  from  vexations  and  calami- 

*  ties,  or  possessed  of  so  great  a  share 

*  of  content  and  health  as  at  this  pe- 

*  riod.     Looking    back   on   some   de- 

*  lightful  and  happy  events  of  my  life, 
'  and  on  many  misfortunes  so  truly 
'overwhelming  that  the  appalling  re- 
'  trospect  makes  me  wonder  how  I 
'  have  reached  this  age  in  vigour  and 
'  prosperity,  through  God's  goodness 
'  I  have  resolved  to  publish  an  ac- 
'  count  of  my  life  ;  and  ....  I 
'must,  in  commencing  my  narrative, 
'  satisfy  the  public  on  some  few 
'  points  to  which  its  curiosity  is  usu- 
'  ally  directed  ;  the  first  of  which  is  to 
'  ascertain  whether  a  man  is  descended 


170  A   KOGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

'  from  a  virtuous  and  ancient  family. 
' ....     I  shall  therefore  now  pro- 

*  ceed  to  inform  the  reader  how  it 
'  pleased  God  that  I  should  come  into 
'  the  world.' 

So  you  read  on  page  i  ;  what  you 
read  on  page  191  is  this  :  — 

'  Just  after  sunset,  about  eight 
'  o'clock,  as  this  musqueteer  stood 
'  at    his   door  with  his    sword  in  his 

*  hand,  when  he  had  done  supper,  I 
'  with  great  address  came  close  up  to 
'  him  with  a  long  dagger,  and  gave 
'him  a  violent  back -handed  stroke, 
'  which  I  aimed  at  his  neck.  He  in- 
'  stantly  turned  round,  and  the  blow, 
'  falling  directly  upon  his  left  shoul- 
'der,  broke  the  whole  bone  of  it; 
'  upon  which  he  dropped  his  sword, 
'  quite  overcome  by  the  pain,  and 
'  took  to  his  heels.  I  pursued,  and 
'  in  four  steps  came  up  with  him, 
'  when,  raising  the  dagger  over  his 
'  head,  which  he  lowered  down,  I  hit 


A   ROGUE'S  iMEMOIRS.  171 

*  him  exactly  upon  the  nape  of  the 
'  neck.  The  weapon  iDcnctrated  so 
'  deep    that,  though  I    made  a  great 

*  effort  to  recover  it  again,  I  found  it 
'  impossible.' 

So  much  for  murder.  Now  for 
manslaughter,  or  rather  Cellini's  no- 
tion of  manslaughter. 

'  Pompeo  entered    an  apothecary's 

*  shop  at  the  corner  of  the  Chiavica, 

*  about  some  business,  and  stayed 
'  there  for  some  time.  I  was  told  he 
'  had  boasted  of  having  bullied  me, 
'  but  it  turned  out  a  fatal  adventure 
'to  him.     Just  as   I  arrived  at   that 

*  quarter  he  was  coming  out  of  the 
'  shop,  and  his  bravoes,  having  made 
'  an  opening,  formed  a  circle  round 
'  him.  I  thereupon  clai')pcd  my  hand 
'  to  a  sharp  dagger,  and  having  forced 
'  my  way  through  the  file  of  rufifians, 
'laid  hold  of  him  by  the  throat,  so 
'  quickly  and  with  such  presence  of 
'  mind,  that  there  was  not  one  of  his 


172  A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

'friends  could  defend  him.     I  pulled 

*  him  towards  me  to  give  him  a  blow 
'  in  front,  but  he  turned  his  face  about 

*  through  excess  of  terror,  so  that  I 
'  wounded  him  exactly  under  the  ear  ; 
'  and  upon  repeating  my  blow,  he  fell 
'  down  dead.  It  had  never  been  my 
'  intention  to  kill  him,  but  blows  are 
'  not  always  under  command.* 

We  must  all  feel  that  it  would 
never  have  done  to  have  begun  with 
these  passages,  but  long  before  the 
191st  page  has  been  reached  Cellini 
has  retreated  into  his  own  atmos- 
phere, and  the  scales  of  justice  have 
been  hopelessly  tampered  with. 

That  such  a  man  as  this  encoun- 
tered suffering  in  the  course  of  his 
life,  should  be  matter  for  satisfaction 
to  every  well-regulated  mind;  but, 
somehow  or  another,  you  find  your- 
self pitying  the  fellow  as  he  narrates 
the  hardships  he  endured  in  the 
Castle  of  S.  Angelo.     He  is  so  sym- 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  173 

metrical  a  rascal !  Just  hear  him  ! 
listen  to  what  he  says  well  on  in  the 
second  volume,  after  the  little  inci- 
dents already  quoted  : 

'  Havini:^    at  len^ijth  recovered    my 

*  strength    and    vigour,    after    I    had 

*  composed  myself   and  resumed  my 

*  cheerfulness    of   mind,   I    continued 

*  to  read  my  Bible,  and  so  accustomed 
'my    eyes    to    that     darkness,    that 

*  though  I  was  at  first  able  to  read 
'  only  an  hour  and  a  half,  I  could  at 
'length    read    three    hours.      I    then 

*  reflected  on  the  wonderful  power 
*of  the  Almighty  upon  the  hearts  of 
'  simple  men,  who  had  carried  their 

*  enthusiasm  so  far  as  to  believe 
'  firmly  that  God  would  indulge  them 
'  in  all  they  wished  for  ;  and  I  prom- 
'  ised  myself  the  assistance  of  the 
'  Most    High,    as    well    through    His 

*  mercy  as  on  account  of  my  inno- 
'  cence.  Thus  turning  constantly  to 
'the   Supreme   Being,   sometimes  in 


174  ^   ROGi^E'S  MEMOIRS. 

*  prayer,  sometimes  in  silent  medita- 
*tion  on  the  divine  goodness,  I  was 

*  totally  engrossed  by  these  heavenly 
'reflections,  and  came  to  take  such 
'  delight  in  pious  meditations   that  I 

*  no  longer  thought  of  past  misfor- 
'  tunes.  On  the  contrary,  I  was  all 
'  day  long  singing  psalms  and  many 
'  other  compositions  of  mine,  in  which 

*  I  celebrated  and  praised  the  Deity.' 

Thus  torn  from  their  context,  these 
passages  may  seem  to  supply  the 
best  possible  falsification  of  the  pre- 
vious statement  that  Cellini  told  the 
truth  about  himself.  Judged  by  these 
passages  alone,  he  may  appear  a 
hypocrite  of  an  unusually  odious  de- 
scription. But  it  is  only  necessary 
to  read  his  book  to  dispel  that  notion. 
He  tells  lies  about  other  people  ;  he 
repeats  long  conversations,  sounding 
his  own  praises,  during  which,  as  his 
own  narrative  shows,  he  was  not 
present ;  he  exaggerates  his  own  ex- 


A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  175 

ploits,  his  siiffering-s  —  even,  it  may 
be,  his  crimes;  but  when  we  lay 
down  his  book,  we  feel  we  are  say- 
ing good-bye  to  a  man  whom  we 
know. 

He  has  introduced  himself  to  us, 
and  though  doubtless  we  prefer  saints 
to  sinners,  we  may  be  forgiven  for 
liking  the  company  of  a  live  rogue 
better  than  that  of  the  lay -figures 
and  empty  clock-cases  labelled  with 
distinguished  names,  who  are  to  be 
found  doing  duty  for  men  in  the 
works  of  our  standard  historians. 
What  would  we  not  give  to  know 
Julius  Caesar  one  half  as  well  as  we 
know  this  outrageous  rascal  .''  The 
saints  of  the  earth,  too,  how  shadowy 
they  are  !  Which  of  them  do  we 
really  know  .■*  Excepting  one  or  two 
ancient  and  modern  Ouietists,  there 
is  hardly  one  amongst  the  whole 
number  who  being  dead  yet  speaketh. 
Their   memoirs   far    too   often    only 


176  A   ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS. 

reveal  to  us  a  hazy  something,  cer- 
tainly not  recognisable  as  a  man. 
This  is  generally  the  fault  of  their 
editors,  who,  though  men  themselves, 
confine  their  editorial  duties  to  going 
up  and  down  the  diaries  and  papers 
of  the  departed  saint,  and  oblitera- 
ting all  human  touches.  This  they 
do  for  the  '  better  prevention  of 
scandals  ; '  and  one  cannot  deny  that 
they  attain  their  end,  though  they 
pay  dearly  for  it. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  start  I 
gave  when,  on  reading  some  old  book 
about  India,  I  came  across  an  after- 
dinner  jest  of  Henry  Martyn's.  The 
thought  of  Henry  Martyn  laughing 
over  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  was 
almost,  as  Robert  Browning's  un- 
known painter  says,  'too  wildly  dear  ; ' 
and  to  this  day  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  there  must  be  a  mistake 
somewhere. 

To  return    to    Cellini,  and  to  con- 


A    ROGUE'S  MEMOIRS.  177 

elude.  On  laying  down  his  *  Me- 
moirs,' let  us  be  careful  to  recall 
our  banished  moral  sense,  and  make 
peace  with  her,  by  passing  a  final 
judgment  on  this  desperate  sinner, 
which  perhaps,  after  all,  we  cannot  do 
better  than  by  employing  language 
of  his  own  concerning  a  monk,  a 
fellow-prisoner  of  his,  who  never,  so 
far  as  appears,  murdered  anybody, 
but  of  whom  Cellini  none  the  less 
felt  himself  entitled  to  say  : 

*I  admired  his  shining  qualities, 
*  but  his  odious  vices  I  freely  cen- 
'sured  and  held  in  abhorrence.' 


THE   VIA   MEDIA. 

The  world  is  governed  by  logic. 
Truth  as  well  as  Providence  is  al- 
ways on  the  side  of  the  strongest  bat- 
talions. An  illogical  opinion  only  re- 
quires rope  enough  to  hang  itself. 

Middle  men  may  often  seem  to 
be  earning  for  themselves  a  place 
in  Universal  Biography,  and  middle 
positions  frequently  seem  to  afford 
the  final  solution  of  vexed  questions  ; 
but  this  double  delusion  seldom  out- 
lives a  generation.  The  world  wearies 
of  the  men,  for,  attractive  as  their 
characters  may  be,  they  are  for  ever 
telling  us,  generally  at  great  length, 
how  it  comes  about  that  they  stand 
just  where  they  do,  and  we  soon  tire 
of  explanations  and  forget  apologists. 


THE    VIA   MEDIA.  179 

The  positions,  too,  once  hailed  with 
such  acclaim,  so  eagerly  recognised 
as  the  true  refuges  for  poor  mortals 
anxious  to  avoid  being  run  over  by 
fast-driving  logicians,  how  untenable 
do  they  soon  appear !  how  quickly 
do  they  grow  antiquated  !  how  com- 
pletely they  are  forgotten  ! 

The  Via  Media,  alluring  as  is  its 
direction,  imposing  as  are  its  portals, 
is,  after  all,  only  what  Londoners  call 
a  blind  alley,  leading  nowhere. 

'  Ratiocination,'  says  one  of  the 
most  eloquent  and  yet  exact  of  mod- 
ern writers,*  '  is  the  great  principle 
'of  order  in  thinking:  it  reduces  a 
'chaos  into  harmony,  it  catalogues 
'  the  accumulations  of  knowledge  ;  it 
'  maps  out  for  us  the  relations  of  its 
*  separate  departments.  It  enables 
'  the  independent  intellects  of  many 
'acting  and  re-acting  on  each  other 
'  to    bring    their    collective    force   to 

*  Dr.  Newman  in  the  '  Grammar  of  Assent.' 


l8o  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

'  bear  upon  the  same  subject-matter. 
'  If  language  is  an  inestimable  gift  to 

*  man,  the  logical  faculty  prepares  it 
'for  our  use.     Though  it  does  not  go 

*  so  far  as  to  ascertain  truth  ;  still,  it 
'  teaches  us  the  direction  in  which 
'  truth  lies,  and  ]ioiv  propositions  lie 
'  towards  each  other.  Nor  is  it  a  slight 
'  benefit  to  know  what  is  needed  for 
'  the  proof  of  a  point,  what  is  wanting 
'  in  a  theory,  how  a  theory  hangs  to- 

*  gether,  and  ivhat  zvill  follow  if  it  be 

*  admitted.^ 

This  great  principle  of  order  in 
thinking  is  what  we  are  too  apt  to 
forget.  '  Give  us,'  cry  many,  '  safety 
'  in  our  opinions,  and  let  who  will  be 
'logical.  An  Englishman's  creed  is 
'compromise.  His  bete  noir  &x\.r2iV3.- 
'gance.  We  are  not  saved  by  syl- 
'  logism.'  Possibly  not ;  but  yet  there 
can  be  no  safety  in  an  illogical  posi- 
tion, and  one's  chances  of  snug  quar- 
ters in  eternity  cannot  surely  be  bet- 


THE    VIA   MEDIA.  i8i 

tered  by  our  believing  at  one  and  the 
same  moment  of  time  self-contradic- 
tory propositions. 

But,  talk  as  we  may,  for  the  bulk 
of  mankind  it  will  doubtless  always 
remain  true  that  a  truth  does  not  ex- 
clude its  contradictory.  Darwin  and 
Moses  are  both  right.  Between  the 
Gospel  according  to  Matthew  and  the 
Gospel  according  to  Matthew  Arnold 
there  is  no  difference. 

If  the  too  apparent  absurdity  of 
this  is  pressed  home,  the  baffled  il- 
logician,  persecuted  in  one  position, 
flees  into  another,  and  may  be  heard 
assuring  his  tormentor  that  in  a  pe- 
riod like  the  present,  which  is  so  no- 
toriously transitional,  a  logician  is  as 
much  out  of  place  as  a  bull  in  a  china 
shop,  and  that  unless  he  is  quiet,  and 
keeps  his  tail  well  wrapped  round  his 
legs,  the  mischief  he  will  do  to  his 
neighbours'  china  creeds  and  deli- 
cate porcelain  opinions  is  shocking  to 


i82  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

contemplate.  But  this  excuse  is  no 
longer  admissible.  The  age  has  re- 
mained transitional  so  unconsciona- 
bly long,  that  we  cannot  consent  to 
forego  the  use  of  logic  any  longer. 
For  a  decade  or  two  it  was  all  well 
enough,  but  when  it  comes  to  four- 
score years,  one's  patience  gets  ex- 
hausted. Carlyle's  celebrated  Essay, 
*  Characteristics,'  in  which  this  tran- 
sitional period  is  diagnosed  with  un- 
rivalled acumen,  is  half  a  century  old. 
Men  have  been  born  in  it  —  have 
grown  old  in  it — have  died  in  it.  It 
has  outlived  the  old  Court  of  Chan- 
cery. It  is  high  time  the  spurs  of 
logic  were  applied  to  its  broken- 
winded  sides. 

Notwithstanding  the  obstinate  pre- 
ference the  'bulk  of  mankind'  always 
show  for  demonstrable  errors  over 
undeniable  truths,  the  number  of 
persons  is  daily  increasing  who  have 
begun  to  put  a  value  upon   mental 


THE    VIA    MEDIA.  1S3 

coherency    and    to     appreciate     the 
charm  of  a  logical  position. 

It  was  common  talk  at  one  time  to 
express  astonishment  at  the  extend- 
ing influence  of  the  Church  of  Rome, 
and  to  wonder  how  people  who  went 
about  unaccompanied  by  keepers 
could  submit  their  reason  to  the 
Papacy,  with  her  open  rupture  wiih 
science  and  her  evil  historical  repu- 
tation. From  astonishment  to  con- 
tempt is  but  a  step.  We  first  open 
wide  our  eyes  and  then  our  mouths. 

'  Lord  So-and-so,  his  coat  bedropt  with  wax, 
All  Peter's  chains  about  his  waist,  his  liack 
Brave  with  the  needlework  of  Noodledom, 
Believes,  —  who  wonders  and  who  cares  ? ' 

It  used  to  be  thought  a  sufficient 
explanation  to  say  either  that  the 
man  was  an  ass  or  that  it  was  all 
those  Ritualists.  But  gradually  it  be- 
came apparent  that  the  pervert  was 
not  always  an  ass,  and  that  the 
Ritualists  had  nothing  whatever  to 
do  with  it.     If  a  man's  tastes  run  in 


i84  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

the  direction  of  Gothic  Architecture, 
free  seats,  daily  services,  frequent 
communions,  lighted  candles  and 
Church  millinery,  they  can  all  be 
gratified,  not  to  say  glutted,  in  the 
Church  of  his  baptism. 

It  is  not  the  Roman  ritual,  how- 
ever splendid,  nor  her  ceremonial, 
however  spiritually  significant,  nor 
her  system  of  doctrine,  as  well  ar- 
ranged as  Roman  law  and  as  subtle 
as  Greek  philosophy,  that  makes 
Romanists  nowadays. 

It  is  when  a  person  of  religious 
spirit  and  strong  convictions  as  to 
the  truth  and  importance  of  certain 
dogmas  —  few  in  number  it  may  be  ; 
perhaps  only  one,  the  Being  of  God 
—  first  becomes  fully  alive  to  the 
tendency  and  direction  of  the  most 
active  opinions  of  the  day  ;  when,  his 
alarm  quickening  his  insight,  he  reads 
as  it  were  between  the  lines  of  books, 
magazines,  and  newspapers  ;    when, 


THE    VIA  MEDIA.  1S5 

struck  with  a  sudden  trepidation,  he 
asks,  '  Where  is  this  to  stop  ?  how 
'can  I,  to  the  extent  of  a  poor  abil- 
'  ity,  help  to  stem  this  tide  of  opinion 
'  which  daily  increases  its  volume  and 
'floods  new  territory?'  —  then  it  is 
that  the  Church  of  Rome  stretches 
out  her  arms  and  seems  to  say, 
'  Quarrel  not  with  your  destiny,  which 
'  is  to  become  a  Catholic.     You  may 

*  see  difficulties  and   you   may   have 

*  doubts.  They  abound  everywhere. 
'  You  will  never  get  rid  of  them. 
'  But  I,  and  I  alone,  have  never  co- 

*  quetted  with  the  spirit  of  the  age. 

*  I,  and  I  alone,  have  never  submitted 

*  my  creeds  to  be  overhauled  by  infi- 

*  dels.  Join  me,  acknowledge  my  au- 
'  thority,  and  you  need  dread  no  side 
'  attack  and  fear  no  charge  of  incon- 
'  sistency.  Succeed  finally  I  must, 
'  but  even  were  I  to  fail,  yours  would 
'  be  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
'  you  had  never  held  an  opinion,  used 


iS6  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

'  an  argument,  or  said  a  word,  that 
'  could  fairly  have  serv^ed  the  purpose 
'  of  your  triumphant  enemy.' 

At  such  a  crisis  as  this  in  a  man's 
life,  he  does  not  ask  himself,  How  lit- 
tle can  I  believe  ?  With  how  few 
miracles  can  I  get  off  ?  —  he  demands 
sound  armour,  sharp  weapons,  and, 
above  all,  firm  ground  to  stand  on  — 
a  good  footing  for  his  faith  —  and 
these  he  is  apt  to  fancy  he  can  get 
from  Rome  alone. 

No  doubt  he  has  to  pay  for  them, 
but  the  charm  of  the  Church  of 
Rome  is  this :  when  you  have  paid 
her  price  you  get  your  goods  —  a 
neat  assortment  of  coherent,  inter- 
dependent, logical  opinions. 

It  is  not  much  use,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, to  call  the  convert  a 
coward,  and  facetiously  to  inquire  of 
him  what  he  really  thinks  about  St. 
Januarius.  Nobody  ever  began  with 
Januarius.     I  have  no  doubt  a  good 


THE    VIA   MEDIA.  187 

many  Romanists  would  be  glad  to 
be  quit  of  him.  He  is  part  of  the 
price  ihey  have  to  pay  in  order  that 
their  title  to  the  possession  of  other 
miracles  may  be  quieted.  If  you  can 
convince  the  convert  that  he  can  dis- 
believe Januarius  of  Naples  without 
losing  his  grip  of  Paul  of  Tarsus,  you 
will  be  well  employed  ;  but  if  you 
begin  with  merry  gibes,  and  end  with 
contemptuously  demanding  that  he 
should  have  done  with  such  nonsense 
and  fling  the  rubbish  o\erboarJ,  he 
will  draw  in  his  horns  and  perhaps, 
if  he  knows  his  Browning,  murmur 
to  himself :  — 

'  To  such  a  process,  I  discern  no  end. 
Cutting  off  one  excrescence  to  sec  two  ; 
Tiiere  is  ever  a  next  in  size,  now  grown  as  big. 
That  meets  tlie  knife.     I  cut  and  cut  again  ; 
First  cut  the  Liquefaction,  what  comes  last 
But  Fichte's  clever  cut  at  God  Himself  "f 

To  suppose  that  no  person  is  logi- 
cally entitled  to  fear  God  and  to  ridi- 
cule Januarius  at  the  same  time,  is 


i88  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

doubtless  extravagant,  but  to  do  so 
require*  care.  There  is  an  '  order  in 
'thinking.  We  must  consider  how 
'  propositions  lie  towards  each  other 
'  —  how  a  theory  hangs  together,  and 
'what  will  follow  if  it  be  admitted,' 

It  is  eminently  desirable  that  we 
should  consider  the  logical  termini  of 
our  opinions.  Travelling  up  to  town 
last  month  from  the  West,  a  gentle- 
man got  into  my  carriage  at  Swin- 
don, who,  as  we  moved  off  and  began 
to  rush  through  the  country,  became 
unable  to  restrain  his  delight  at  our 
speed.  His  face  shone  with  pride,  as 
if  he  were  pulling  us  himself.  '  What 
'  a  charming  train  ! '  he  exclaimed. 
'This  is  the  pace  I  like  to  travel  at.' 
I  indicated  assent.  Shortly  after- 
wards, when  our  windows  rattled  as 
we  rushed  through  Reading,  he  let 
one  of  them  down  in  a  hurry,  and 
cried  out  in  consternation,  '  Wh}^,  I 
'want  to  get  out  here.'     'Charming 


*     THE    VIA   MEDIA.  189 

*  train,'  I  observed.  '  Just  the  pace 
'  I  like  to  travel  at ;  but  it  is  awkward 

*  if  you  want  to  ,i;o  anywhere  c.\cei:>t 
'  Paddini;ton.'  I\Iy  companion  made 
no  reply  ;  his  face  ceased  to  shine, 
and  as  he  sat  whizzing  past  his  din- 
ner, I  mentally  compared  his  recent 
exultation  with  that  of  those  who  in 
the  present  day  extol  much  of  its 
spirit,  use  many  of  its  arguments,  and 
partake  in  most  of  its  triumphs,  in 
utter  ignorance  as  to  whitherwards  it 
is  all  tending  as  surely  as  the  Great 
Western  rails  run  into  Paddington. 
'Poor  victims!'  said  a  distinguished 
Divine,  addressing  the  Evangelicals, 
then  rejoicing  over  their  one  legal 
victory,  the  '  Gorham  Case  '  ;  'do  you 
'dream  that  the  spirit  of  the  age  is 
'  working  for  you,  or  are  you  secretly 
'  prepared    to    go    further    than   you 

*  avow  ? ' 

Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  friends,  the 
Nonconformists,  are,  as  a  rule,  now- 


190  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

adays,  bad  logicians.  What  Dr. 
Newman  has  said  of  the  Tractarians 
is  (with  but  a  verbal  alteration)  also 
true  of  a  great  many  Nonconformists  : 
'  Moreover,  there  are  those  among 
'  them  who   have  very  little  grasp  of 

*  principle,  even  from  the  natural 
'  temper  of  their  minds.  They  see 
'  this  thing  is  beautiful,  and  that  is 
'  in  the  Fathers,  and  a  third  is  ex- 
'  pedient,  and  a  fourth  pious  ;  but  of 
'  their  connection  one  with  another, 
'  their  hidden  essence  and  their  life, 
'  and  the  bearing  of  external  matters 
'  upon  each  and  upon  all,  they  have 
'  no  perception  or  even  suspicion. 
'  They  do  not  look  at  things   as  part 

*  of  a  whole,  and  often  will  sacrifice 
'  the  most  important  and  precious 
'  portions  of  their  creed,  or  make 
'  irremediable  concessions  in  word 
'  or  in  deed,  from  mere  simplicity  and 

*  want  of  apprehension.' 

We  have  heard  of  grown-up  Bap- 


rilE    VTA   MEDIA.  191 

tists  asked  to  become,  and  actually 
becoming-,  godfathers  and  godmoth- 
ers to  Episcopalian  babies  !  What 
terrible  confusion  is  here  !  A  point 
is  thought  to  be  of  sufficient  impor- 
tance to  justify  separation  on  account 
of  it  from  the  whole  Christian  Church, 
and  yet  not  to  be  of  importance 
enough  to  debar  the  separatist  from 
taking  part  in  a  ceremony  whose 
sole  significance  is  that  it  gives  the 
lie  direct  to  the  point  of  separation. 

l)Ut  we  all  of  us  —  Churchmen  and 
Dissenters  alike  —  select  our  opin- 
ions far  too  much  in  the  same  fashion 
as  ladies  are  reported,  I  dare  say  quite 
falsely,  to  do  their  afternoon's  shop- 
ping —  this  thing  because  it  is  so 
pretty,  and  that  thing  because  it  is 
so  cheap.  We  pick  and  choose,  take 
and  leave,  approbate  and  reprobate 
in  a  breath.  A  familiar  anecdote  is 
never  out  of  place :  An  English  cap- 
tain, anxious  to  conciliate  a  savage 


192  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

king,  sent  him  on  shore,  for  his  own 
royal  wear,  an  entire  dress  suit.  His 
majesty  was  graciously  pleased  to 
accept  the  gift,  and  as  it  never  oc- 
curred to  the  royal  mind  that  he 
could,  by  any  possibility,  wear  all  the 
things  himself,  with  kingly  generosity 
he  distributed  what  he  did  not  want 
amongst  his  Court.  This  done,  he 
sent  for  the  donor  to  thank  him  in 
person.  As  the  captain  walked  up 
the  beach,  his  majesty  advanced  to 
meet  him,  looking  every  inch  a  king 
in  the  sober  dignity  of  a  dress-coat. 
The  waistcoat  imparted  an  air  of  pen- 
sive melancholy  that  mightily  became 
the  Prime  Minister,  whilst  the  Lord 
Chamberlain,  as  he  skipped  to  and 
fro  in  his  white  gloves,  looked  a  cour- 
tier indeed.  The  trousers  had  be- 
come the  subject  of  an  unfortunate 
dispute,  in  the  course  of  which  they 
had  sustained  such  injuries  as  to  be 
hardly  recognisable.  The  captain 
was  convulsed  with  lau^rhter. 


THE    VIA   MEDIA.  193 

But,  in  truth,  the  mehtal  toilet  of 
most  of  us  is  as  defective  and  almost 
as  risible  as  was  that  of  this  savage 
Court,  \Vc  take  on  our  opinions 
without  paying?  heed  to  conclusions, 
and  the  result  is  absurd.  ]ktter  be 
without  any  opinions  at  all.  A  naked 
savage  is  not  necessarily  an  undigni- 
fied object  ;  but  a  savage  in  a  dress- 
coat  and  notliing  else  is,  and  must 
ever  remain,  a  mockery  and  a  show. 
There  is  a  great  relativity  about  a 
dress -suit.  In  the  language  of  the 
logicians,  the  name  of  each  article  not 
only  denotes  that  particular,  but  con- 
notes all  the  rest.  Hence  it  came 
about  that  that  which,  when  worn  in 
its  entirety,  is  so  dull  and  decorous, 
became  so  provocative  of  Homeric 
laughter  when  distributed  amongst 
several  wearers. 

No  person  with  the  least  tincture 
of  taste  can  ever  weary  of  Dr.  New- 
man, and  no  apology  is  therefore  of- 


194  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

fered  for  another  quotation  from  his 
pages.  In  his  story,  '  Loss  and  Gain,' 
he  makes  one  of  his  characters,  who 
has  just  become  a  Catholic,  thus  re- 
fer to  the  stock  Anglican  Divines, 
a  class  of  writers  who  are,  at  all 
events,  immensely  superior  to  the 
Ellicotts  and  Farrars  of  these  latter 
days  :    '  I   am   embracing  tbat  creed 

*  which  upholds  the  divinity  of  tradi- 

*  tion  with  Laud,  consent  of  Fathers 
'  with  Beveridge,  a  visible  Church 
'  with    Bramhall,    dogma   with    Bull, 

*  the  authority  of  the  Pope  with 
'  Thorn  dyke,  penance  with  Taylor, 
'  prayers  for  the  dead  with  Ussher, 

*  celibacy,    asceticism,     ecclesiastical 

*  discipline  with  Bingham.'  What  is 
this  to  say  but  that,  according  to  the 
Cardinal,  our  great  English  divines 
have  divided  the  Roman  dress-suit 
amongst  themselves  } 

This    particular    charge   may   per- 
haps be  untrue,  but  with  that  I  am 


THE    VIA    MEDIA.  195 

not  concerned.  If  it  is  not  true  of 
them,  it  is  true  of  somebody  else. 
'That  is  satisfactory  so  far  as  Mr. 
'  Lydgate  is  concerned,'  says  Mrs. 
Farebrother  in  'Middlemarch,'  with 
an  air  of  precision  ;  '  but  as  to  Bul- 
'  strode,  the  report  may  be  true  of 
'some  other  son.' 

We  must  all  be  acquainted  with 
the  reckless  way  in  which  people 
pluck  opinions  like  flowers  —  a  bud 
here,  and  a  leaf  there.  The  bouquet 
is  pretty  to-day,  but  you  must  look 
for  it  to-morrow  in  the  oven. 

There  is  a  sense  in  which  it  is 
quite  true,  what  our  other  Cardinal 
has  said  about  Ultramontanes,  An- 
glicans, and  Orthodox  Dissenters  all 
being  in  the  same  boat.  They  all  of 
them  enthrone  Opinion,  holding  it  to 
be,  when  encased  in  certain  dogmas. 
Truth  Absolute.  Consequently  they 
have  all  their  martyrologies  —  the 
briofht   roll-call    of    those   who    have 


196  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

defied  Caesar  even  unto  death,  or  at 
all  events  gaol.  They  all,  therefore, 
put  something  above  the  State,  and 
apply  tests  other  than  those  recog- 
nised in  our  law  courts. 

The  precise  way  by  which  they 
come  at  their  opinions  is  only  detail. 
Be  it  an  infallible  Church,  an  infal- 
lible Book,  or  an  inward  spiritual 
grace,  the  outcome  is  the  same.  The 
Romanist,  of  course,  has  to  bear  the 
first  brunt,  and  is  the  most  obnoxious 
to  the  State  ;  but  he  must  be  slow  of 
comprehension  and  void  of  imagina- 
tion who  cannot  conceive  of  circum- 
stances arising  in  this  country  when 
the  State  should  assert  it  to  be  its 
duty  to  violate  what  even  Protestants 
believe  to  be  the  moral  law  of  God. 
Therefore,  in  opposing  Ultramonta- 
nism,  as  it  surely  ought  to  be  op- 
posed, care  ought  to  be  taken  by 
those  who  are  not  prepared  to  go  all 
lengths  with   Caesar,   to   select  their 


THE    VIA    MEDIA.  197 

weapons  of  attack,  not  from  his  ar- 
moury, but  from  their  own. 

How  ridiculous  it  is  to  see  some 
estimable  man  who  subscribes  to  the 
Bible  Society,  and  takes  what  he 
calls  '  a  warm  interest '  in  the  hea- 
then, chuckling  over  some  scoffing 
article  in  a  newspaper  —  say  about  a 
Church  Congress  —  and  never  per- 
ceiving, so  unaccustomed  is  he  to 
examine  directions,  that  he  is  all  the 
time  laughing  at  his  own  folly  ! 
Aunt  Nesbit,  in  '  Dred,'  considered 
Gibbon  a  very  pious  writer.  '  I  am 
'  sure,'  says  she,  '  he  makes  the  most 
*  religious  reflections  all  along.  I 
'liked  him  particularly  on  that  ac- 
'  count.'  This  poor  lady  had  some 
excuse.  A  vein  of  irony  like  Gib- 
bon's is  not  struck  upon  every  day  ; 
but  readers  of  newspapers,  when  they 
laugh,  ought  to  be  able  to  perceive 
what  it  is  they  are  laughing  at. 

Logic  is  the  prime  necessity  of  the 


igS  THE    VIA   MEDIA. 

hour.  Decomposition  and  transfor- 
mation is  going  on  all  around  us,  but 
far  too  slowly.  Some  opinions,  bold 
and  erect  as  they  may  still  stand,  are 
in  reality  but  empty  shells.  One 
shove  would  be  fatal.  Why  is  it  not 
given  } 

The  world  is  full  of  doleful  crea- 
tures, who  move  about  demanding 
our  sympathy.  I  have  nothing  to 
offer  them  but  doses  of  logic,  and 
stern  commands  to  move  on  or  fall 
back.  Catholics  in  distress  about  In- 
fallibility ;  Protestants  devoting  them- 
selves to  the  dismal  task  of  joaring 
down  the  dimensions  of  this  miracle, 
and  reducing  the  credibility  of  that 
one  —  as  if  any  appreciable  relief 
from  the  burden  of  faith  could  be  so 
obtained  ;  sentimental  sceptics,  who, 
after  labouring  to  demolish  what  they 
call  the  chimera  of  superstition,  fall 
to  weeping  as  they  remember  they 
have  now  no  lies   to  teach  their  chil- 


THE    VIA   MEDIA.  199 

dren  ;  democrats  who  arc  frightened 
at  the  rough  voice  of  the  people,  and 
aristocrats  flirting  with  democracy. 
Logic,  if  it  cannot  cure,  might  at  least 
silence  these  gentry. 


FALSTAFF. 

There  is  more  material  for  a  life  of 
Falstaff  than  for  a  life  of  Shake- 
speare, though  for  both  there  is  a 
lamentable  dearth.  The  difficulties 
of  the  biographer  are,  however,  dif- 
ferent in  the  two  cases.  There  is 
nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  in  Shake- 
speare's works  which  throws  light  on 
his  own  story  ;  and  such  evidence  as 
we  have  is  of  the  kind  called  circum- 
stantial. But  Falstaff  constantly 
gives  us  reminiscences  or  allusions 
to  his  earlier  life,  and  his  companions 
also  tell  us  stories  which  ought  to 
help  us  in  a  biography.  The  evi- 
dence, such  as  it  is,  is  direct  ;  and 
the  only  inference  we  have  to  draw  is 
that  from  the  statement  to  the  trutli 
of  the  statement. 


FALSTAFF.  201 

It  has  been  justly  remarked  by  Sir 
James  Stephen,  that  this  very  infer- 
ence is  perhaps  the  most  difficult  one 
of  all  to  draw  correctly.  The  infer- 
ence from  so  -  called  circumstantial 
evidence,  if  you  have  enough  of  it,  is 
much  surer;  for  whilst  facts  cannot 
lie,  witnesses  can,  and  frequently  do. 
The  witnesses  on  whom  we  have  to 
rely  for  the  facts  are  Falstaff  and  his 
companions  —  especially  Falstaff. 

When  an  old  man  tries  to  tell  you 
the  story  of  his  youth",  he  sees  the 
facts  through  a  distorting  subjective 
medium,  and  gives  an  impression  of 
his  history  and  exploits  more  or  less 
at  variance  with  the  bare  facts  as 
seen  by  a  contemporary  outsider. 
The  scientific  Goethe,  though  truth- 
ful enough  in  the  main,  certainly  fails 
in  his  reminiscences  to  tell  a  plain 
unvarnished  tale.  And  Falstaff  was 
not  habitually  truthful.  Indeed,  that 
Western  American,  who  wrote  affec- 


202  FALSTAFF. 

tionately  on  the  tomb  of  a  comrade, 
*  As  a  truth-crusher  he  was  unri- 
'  vailed,'  had  probably  not  given  suf- 
ficient attention  to  Falstaff's  claims 
in  this  matter.  Then  Falstaff's  com- 
panions are  not  witnesses  above  sus- 
picion. Generally  speaking,  they  lie 
open  to  the  charge  made  by  P.  P. 
against  the  wags  of  his  parish,  that 
they  were  men  delighting  more  in 
their  own  conceits  than  in  the  truth. 
These  are  some  of  our  difficulties,  and 
we  ask  the  reader's  indulgence  in  our 
endeavours  to  overcome  them.  We 
will  tell  the  story  from  our  hero's 
birth,  and  will  not  begin  longer  before 
that  event  than  is  usual  with  bio- 
graphers. 

The  question,  WJiar  was  Falstaff 
born  .''  has  given  us  some  trouble. 
We  confess  to  having  once  enter- 
tained a  strong  opinion  that  he  was  a 
Devonshire  man.  This  opinion  was 
based  simply  on  the  flow  and  fertility 


FALSTAFF.  203 

of  his  wit  as  shown  in  his  conversa- 
tion, and  the  rapid  and  fantastic  play 
of  his  imagination.  ]kit  wc  sought  in 
vain  for  any  verbal  provincialisms  in 
support  of  this  ihcor)-,  and  there  was 
something  in  the  character  of  the 
man  that  rather  went  against  it. 
Still,  we  clung  to  the  opinion,  till  we 
found  that  philology  was  against  us, 
and  that  the  Falstaffs  unquestionably 
came  from  Norfolk. 

The  name  is  of  Scandinavian  ori- 
gin ;  and  we  find  in  '  Domesday  '  that 
a  certain  Falstaff  held  freely  from  the 
king  a  church  at  Stamford.  These 
facts  are  of  great  importance.  The 
thirst  for  which  Falstaff  was  always 
conspicuous  was  no  doubt  inherited 
—  was,  in  fact,  a  Scandinavian  thirst. 
The  pirates  of  early  English  times 
drank  as  well  as  they  fought,  and 
their  descendants  who  invade  Eng- 
land—  now  that  the  war  of  commerce 
has   superseded  the  war  of  conquest 


204  FALSTAFF. 

—  Still  bring  the  old  thirst  with 
them,  as  anyone  can  testify  who  has 
enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  the  Lon- 
don Scandinavian  Club.  Then  this 
church  was  no  doubt  a  familiar  land- 
mark in  the  family  ;  and  when  Fal- 
staff  stated,  late  in  life,  that  if  he 
hadn't  forgotten  what  the  inside  of  a 
church  was  like,  he  was  a  peppercorn 
and  a  brewer's  horse,  he  was  think- 
ing with  some  remorse  of  the  family 
temple. 

Of  the  family  between  the  Con- 
quest and  Falstaff's  birth  we  know 
nothing,  except  that,  according  to 
Falstaff's  statement,  he  had  a  grand- 
father who  left  him  a  seal-ring  worth 
forty  marks.  From  this  statement 
we  might  infer  that  the  ring  was  an 
heirloom,  and  consequently  that  Fal- 
staff  was  an  eldest  son,  and  the  head 
of  his  family.  But  we  must  be  care- 
ful in  drawing  our  inferences,  for 
Prince  Henry  frequently  told  Falstaff 


FALSTAFF.  205 

that  the  ring  was  copper ;  and  on 
one  occasion,  when  Falstaff  alleged 
that  his  pocket  had  been  picked  at 
the  Boar's  Head,  and  this  seal-ring 
and  three  or  four  bonds  of  forty- 
pounds  apiece  abstracted,  the  Prince 
assessed  the  total  loss  at  eight-pence. 
After  giving  careful  attention  to 
the  evidence,  and  particularly  to  the 
conduct  of  Falstaff  on  the  occasion 
of  the  alleged  robbery,  we  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  ring  zvas  cop- 
per, and  was  not  an  heirloom.  This 
leaves  us  without  any  information 
about  Falstaff's  family  prior  to  his 
birth.  He  was  born  (as  he  himself 
informs  the  Lord  Chief  Justice)  about 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  with 
a  white  head  and  something  a  round 
belly.  Falstaff's  corpulence,  there- 
fore, as  well  as  his  thirst,  was  con- 
genital. Let  those  who  are  not  born 
with  his  comfortable  figure  sigh  in 
vain  to  attain  his  stately  proportions. 


2o6  FALSTAFF. 

This  is  a  thing  which  Nature  gives 
us  at  our  birth  as  much  as  the  Scan- 
dinavian thirst  or  the  shaping  spirit 
of  imagination. 

Born  somewhere  in  Norfolk,  Fal- 
staff's  early  months  and  years  were 
no  doubt  rich  with  the  promise  of  his 
after  greatness.  We  have  no  record 
of  his  infancy,  and  are  tempted  to 
supply  the  gap  with  Rabelais'  chap- 
ters on  Gargantua's  babyhood.  But 
regard  for  the  truth  compels  us  to 
add  nothing  that  cannot  fairly  be  de- 
duced from  the  evidence.  We  leave 
the  strapping  boy  in  his  swaddling- 
clothes  to  answer  the  question  when 
he  was  born.  Now,  it  is  to  be  re- 
gretted that  Falstaff,  who  was  so 
precise  about  the  hour  of  his  birth, 
should  not  have  mentioned  the  year. 
On  this  point  we  are  again  left  to  in- 
ference from  conflicting  statements. 
We  have  this  distinct  point  to  start 
from,  that  Falstaff,  in  or  about  the 


FALSTAFF.  =07 

year  1401,  gives  his  age  as  some 
fifty  or  by'r  Lady  inclining  to  three- 
score. It  is  true  that  in  other  places 
he  represents  himself  as  old,  and 
again  in  another  states  that  he  and 
his  accomplices  in  the  Gadshill  rob- 
bery are  in  the  vaward  of  their  youth. 
The  Chief  Justice  reproves  him  for 
this  affectation  of  youth,  and  puts 
a  question  (which,  it  is  true,  elicits 
no  admission  from  Falstaff)  as  to 
whether  every  part  of  him  is  not 
blasted  with  antiquity. 

We  are  inclined  to  think  that  Fal- 
staff rather  understated  his  age  when 
he  described  himself  as  by'r  Lady  in- 
clining to  three-score,  and  that  we 
shall  not  be  far  wrong  if  we  set  down 
1340  as  the  year  of  his  birth.  We 
cannot  be  certain  to  a  year  or  two. 
There  is  a  similar  uncertainty  about 
the  year  of  Sir  Richard  Whitting- 
ton's  birth.  But  both  these  great 
men,  whose  careers  afford  in   some 


2o8  FALSTAFF. 

respects  striking  contrasts,  were  born 
within  a  few  years  of  the  middle  of 
the  fourteenth  century, 

Falstaff's  childhood  was  no  doubt 
spent  in  Norfolk ;  and  we  learn  from 
his  own  lips  that  he  plucked  geese, 
played  truant,  and  whipped  top,  and 
that  he  did  not  escape  beating.  That 
he  had  brothers  and  sisters  we  know  ; 
for  he  tells  us  that  he  is  JoJin  with 
them  and  Sir  ji'olui  with  all  Europe. 
We  do  not  know  the  dame  or  pedant 
who  taught  his  young  idea  how  to  shoot 
and  formed  his  manners  ;  but  Falstaff 
says  that  //"his  manners  became  him 
not,  he  was  a  fool  that  taught  them 
him.  This  does  not  throw  much 
light  on  his  early  education  :  for  it  is 
not  clear  that  the  remark  applies  to 
that  period,  and  in  any  case  it  is 
purely  hypothetical. 

Ikit  Falstaff,  like  so  many  boys 
since  his  time,  left  his  home  in  the 
country  and  came  to  London.     His 


FALSTAFF.  209 

brothers  and  sisters  he  left  behind 
him,  and  we  hear  no  more  of  them. 
Probably  none  of  them  ever  attained 
eminence,  as  there  is  no  record  of 
Falstaff's  having  attempted  to  borrow 
money  of  them.  We  know  Falstaff 
so  well  as  a  tun  of  man,  a  horse-back- 
breaker,  and  so  forth,  that  it  is  not 
easy  to  form  an  idea  of  what  he  was 
in  his  youth.  But  if  we  trace  back 
the  sack -stained  current  of  his  life 
to  the  day  when,  full  of  wonder  and 
hope,  he  first  rode  into  London,  we 
shall  find  him  as  different  from 
Shakespeare's  picture  of  him  as  the 
Thames  at  Iffley  is  from  the  Thames 
at  London  Bridge.  His  figure  was 
shapely  ;  he  had  no  difficulty  then  in 
seeing  his  own  knee,  and  if  he  was 
not  able,  as  he  afterwards  asserted, 
to  creep  through  an  alderman's  ring, 
nevertheless  he  had  all  the  grace  and 
activity  of  youth.  He  was  just  such 
a  lad  (to  take  a  description  almost 
14 


210  .  FALSTAFF. 

contemporary)    as    the    Squier    who 
rode  with  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims  : 

'  A  lover  and  a  lusty  bacheler, 
With  lockes  crull  as  they  were  laid  in  presse, 
Of  twenty  yere  of  age  he  was,  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  lengthe, 
And  wonderly  deliver,  and  grete  of  strengthe. 
****** 

Embronded  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede, 
All  ful  of  freshe  floures,  white  and  rede  ; 
Singing  he  was,  or  floyting  alle  the  day, 
He  was  as  freshe  as  is  the  moneth  of  May. 
Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  long  and  wide, 
Wei  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  fayie  ride. 
He  coude  songes  make,  and  wel  cndite, 
Juste  and  eke  dance,  and  wel  i)ourtraie  and  write. 
So  hot  he  loved  tliat  by  nightertale. 
He  slep  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale.' 

Such  was  Fa]  staff  at  the  age  of 
twenty,  or  something  earlier,  when 
he  entered  at  Clement's  Inn,  where 
were  many  other  young  men  reading 
law,  and  preparing  for  their  call  to 
the  Bar.  How  much  law  he  read  it 
is  impossible  now  to  ascertain.  That 
he  had,  in  later  life,  a  considerable 
knowledge  of  the  subject  is  clear,  but 
this  may  have  been  acquired  like  Mr. 
Micawber's,  by  experience,  as  defen- 


FALSTAFF.  21 1 

dant  on  civil  process.  Wc  arc  in- 
clined to  think  he  read  but  little. 
Aniici  furcs  teniporis :  and  he  had 
many  friends  at  Clement's  Inn  who 
were  not  smugs,  nor,  indeed,  reading 
men  in  any  sense.  There  was  John 
Doit  of  Staffordshire,  and  Black 
George  Barnes,  and  Francis  Pick- 
bone,  and  Will  Squele,  a  Cotswold 
man,  and  Robert  Shallow  from  Glou- 
cestershire. Four  of  these  were  such 
swinge-bucklers  as  were  not  to  be 
found  again  in  all  the  Inns  o'  Court, 
and  we  have  it  on  the  authority  of 
Justice  Shallow  that  Falstaff  was  a 
good  backswordsman,  and  that  before 
he  had  done  growing  he  broke  the 
head  of  Skogan  at  the  Court  gate. 
This  Skogan  appears  to  have  been 
Court -jester  to  Edward  III.  No 
doubt  the  natural  rivalry  between 
the  amateur  and  the  professional 
caused  the  quarrel,  and  Skogan  must 
have  been  a  good  man  if  he  escaped 


212  FALSTAFF. 

with  a  broken  head  only,  and  without 
damage  to  his  reputation  as  a  pro- 
fessional wit.  The  same  day  that 
Falstaff  did  this  deed  of  daring  —  the 
only  one  of  the  kind  recorded  of  him 
—  Shallow  fought  with  Sampson 
Stockfish,  a  fruiterer,  behind  Gray's 
Inn.  Shallow  was  a  gay  dog  in  his 
youth,  according  to  his  own  account  : 
he  was  called  Mad  Shallow,  Lusty 
Shallow  —  indeed,  he  was  called  any- 
thing. He  played  Sir  Dagonet  in 
Arthur's  show  at  Mile  End  Green  ; 
and  no  doubt  Falstaff  and  the  rest  of 
the  set  were  cast  for  other  parts  in 
the  same  pageant.  These  tall  fel- 
lows of  Clement's  Inn  kept  well  to- 
gether, for  they  liked  each  other's 
company,  and  they  needed  each  oth- 
er's help  in  a  row  in  Turnbull  Street 
or  elsewhere.  Their  watchword  was 
'  Hem,  boys  ! '  and  they  made  the  old 
Strand  ring  with  their  songs  as  they 
strolled   home   to  their  chambers  of 


FALSTAFF.  213 

an  evening.  They  heard  the  chimes 
at  midnight  —  which,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, docs  not  seem  to  us  a  despe- 
rately dissipated  entertainment.  But 
midnight  was  a  late  hour  in  those 
days.  The  paralytic  masher  of  the 
present  day,  who  is  most  alive  at 
midnight,  rises  at  noon.  TJicii  the 
day  began  earlier  with  a  long  morn- 
ing, followed  by  a  pleasant  period 
called  the  forenoon.  Under  modern 
conditions  we  spend  the  morning  in 
bed,  and  to  palliate  our  sloth  call  the 
forenoon  and  most  of  the  rest  of  the 
day,  the  morning.  These  young  men 
of  Clement's  Inn  were  a  lively,  not 
to  say  a  rowdy,  set.  They  would  do 
anything  that  led  to  mirth  or  mis- 
chief. What  passed  when  they  lay 
all  night  in  the  windmill  in  St. 
George'^  Field  we  do  not  quite  know  ; 
but  we  are  safe  in  assuming  that  they 
did  not  go  there  to  pursue  their  legal 
duties,  or  to  grind  corn.     Anyhow, 


214  FALSTAFF. 

forty  years  after,   that    night  raised 
pleasant  memories. 

John  Falstaff  was  the  Hfe  and  cen- 
tre of  this  set,  as  Robert  Shallow 
was  the  butt  of  it.  The  latter  had 
few  personal  attractions.  According 
to  Falstaff's  portrait  of  him,  he  looked 
like'  a  man  made  after  supper  of  a 
cheese-paring.  When  he  was  naked 
he  was  for  all  the  world  like  a  forked 
radish,  with  a  head  fantastically 
carved  upon  it  with  a  knife  :  he  was 
so  forlorn  that  his  dimensions  to  any 
thick  sight  were  invincible  :  he  was 
the  very  genius  of  famine  ;  and  a 
certain  section  of  his  friends  called 
him  mandrake  :  he  came  ever  in  the 
rearward  of  the  fashion,  and  sung 
those  tunes  to  the  over -scutched 
huswives  that  he  heard  the  carmen 
whistle,  and  sware  they  w^ere  his  fan- 
cies or  his  good -nights.  Then  he 
had  the  honour  of  having  his  head 
burst  by  John  o'  Gaunt,  for  crowding 


FALSTAFF.  215 

among  the  Marshal's  men  in  the 
Tilt-yard,  and  this  was  matter  for 
continual  gibe  from  Falstaff  and  the 
other  boys.  Falstaff  was  in  the  van 
of  the  fashion,  was  witty  himself 
without  being  at  that  time  the  cause 
that  wit  was  in  others.  No  one 
could  come  within  range  of  his  wit 
without  being  attracted  and  over- 
powered. Late  in  life  Falstaff  de- 
plores nothing  so  much  in  the  char- 
acter of  Prince  John  of  Lancaster  as 
this,  that  a  man  cannot  make  him 
laugh.  He  felt  this  defect  in  the 
Prince's  character  keenly,  for  laugh- 
ter was  Falstaff's  familiar  spirit, 
which  never  failed  to  come  at  his 
call.  It  was  by  laughter  that  young 
Falstaff  fascinated  his  friends  and 
ruled  over  them.  There  are  only  left 
to  us  a  few  scraps  of  his  conversation, 
and  these  have  been,  and  will  be,  to 
all  time  the  delight  of  all  good  men. 
The  Clement's  Inn  bo3-s  who  enjoyed 


2i6  FALSTAFF. 

the  feast,  of  which  we  have  but  the 
crumbs  left  to  us,  were  happy  almost 
beyond  the  lot  o£  man.  For  there  is 
more  in  laughter  than  is  allowed  by 
the  austere,  or  generally  recognised 
by  the  jovial.  By  laughter  man  is 
distinguished  from  the  beasts,  but 
the  cares  and  sorrows  of  life  have 
all  but  deprived  man  of  this  distin- 
guishing grace,  and  degraded  him 
to  a  brutal  solemnity.  Then  comes 
(alas,  how  rarely  ! )  a  genius  such  as 
Falstaff's,  which  restores  the  power 
of  laughter  and  transforms  the  stolid 
brute  into  man.  This  genius  ap- 
proaches nearly  to  the  divine  power 
of  creation,  and  we  may  truly  say, 
*  Some  for  less  were  deified.'  It  is  no 
marvel  that  young  Falstaff's  friends 
assiduously  served  the  deity  who  gave 
them  this  good  gift.  At  first  he  was 
satisfied  with  the  mere  exercise  of 
his  genial  power,  but  he  afterwards 
made  it  serviceable  to  him.     It  was 


FALSTAFF.  217 

but  just  that  he  should  receive  trib- 
ute from  those  who  were  beholden 
to  him,  for  a  pleasure  which  no  other 
could  confer. 

It  was  now  that  Falstaff  began  to 
recognise  what  a  precious  gift  was 
his  congenital  Scandinavian  thirst, 
and  to  lose  no  opportunity  of  gratify- 
ing it.  We  have  his  mature  views 
on  education,  and  we  may  take  them 
as  an  example  of  the  general  truth 
that  old  men  habitually  advise  a 
young  one  to  shape  the  conduct  of 
his  life  after  their  own.  Rightly  to 
apprehend  the  virtues  of  sherris-sack 
is  the  first  qualification  in  an  in- 
structor of  youth.  '  If  I  had  a  thou- 
'  sand  sons,'  says  he, 'the  first  hu- 
'rnane  principles  I  would  teach  them 
*  should  be  to  forswear  thin  potations, 
'and  to  addict  themselves  to  sack '  ; 
and  further:  'There's  never  none 
'  of  these  demure  boys  come  to  any 
'proof;  for  their  drink  doth  so  over- 


2i8  FALSTAFF. 

'  cool  their  blood,  and  making  many 
'fish-meals,  that  they  fall  into  a  kind 
'  of  male  green  sickness  ;  and  then 
'  when  they  marry  they  get  wenches  : 
'they  are  generally  fools  and  cowards, 
'which  some  of  us  should  be  too  but 
'for  inflammation.'  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  Falstaff  did  not  in  early 
life  over-cool  his  blood,  but  addicted 
himself  to  sack,  and  gave  the  subject 
a  great  part  of  his  attention  for  all 
the  remainder  of  his  days. 

It  may  be  that  he  found  the  sub- 
ject too  absorbing  to  allow  of  his 
giving  much  attention  to  old  Father 
Antic  the  Law.  At  any  rate,  he  was 
never  called  to  the  Bar,  and  posterity 
cannot  be  too  thankful  that  his  great 
mind  was  not  lost  in  'the  abyss  of 
'legal  eminence  '  which  has  received 
so  many  men  who  might  have  adorned 
their  country.  That  he  was  fitted 
for  a  brilliant  legal  career  can  admit 
of  no  doubt.     His  power  of  detecting 


FALSTAFF.  219 

analogies  in  cases  apparently  differ- 
ent, his  triumphant  handling  of  cases 
apparently  hopeless,  his  wonderful 
readiness  in  reply,  and  his  dramatic 
instinct,  would  have  made  him  a 
powerful  advocate.  It  may  have 
been  owing  to  difficulties  with  the 
Benchers  of  the  period  over  questions 
of  discipline,  or  it  may  have  been  a 
distaste  for  the  profession  itself,  which 
induced  him  to  throw  up  the  law  and 
adopt  the  profession  of  arms. 

We  know  that  while  he  was  still  at 
Clement's  Inn  he  was  page  to  Lord 
Thomas  Mowbray,  who  was  after- 
wards created  Earl  of  Nottingham 
and  Duke  of  Norfolk.  It  must  be 
admitted  that  here  (as  elsewhere  in 
Shakespeare)  there  is  some  little 
chronological  difficulty.  We  will  not 
inquire  too  curiously,  but  simply  ac- 
cept the  testimony  of  Justice  Shallow 
on  the  point.  IMowbray  was  an  able 
and  ambitious  lord,   and  Falstaff,  as 


220  FALSTAFF. 

page  to  him,  began  his  miUtary  career 
with  every  advantage.  The  French 
wars  of  the  later  years  of  Edward  III. 
gave  frequent  and  abundant  opportu- 
nity for  distinction.  Mowbray  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  Court  and  in 
camp,  and  we  should  like  to  believe 
that  Falstaff  was  in  the  sea-fight 
when  Mowbray  defeated  the  French 
fleet  and  captured  vast  quantities  of 
sack  from  the  enemy.  Unfortunately, 
there  is  no  record  whatever  of  Fal- 
staff's  early  military  career,  and  be- 
yond his  own  ejaculation,  '  Would  to 
'  God  that  my  name  was  not  so  terri- 
'  ble  to  the  enemy  as  it  is  ! '  and  the 
(possible)  inference  from  it  that  he 
must  have  made  his  name  terrible  in 
some  way,  we  have  no  evidence  that 
he  was  ever  in  the  field  before  the 
battle  of  Shrewsbury.  Indeed,  the 
absence  of  evidence  on  this  matter 
goes  strongly  to  prove  the  negative. 
Falstaff  boasts  of  his  valour,  his  ala- 


FALSTAFF.  221 

crity,  and  other  qualities  which  were 
not  apparent  to  the  casual  observer, 
but  he  never  boasts  of  his  services 
in  battle.  If  there  had  been  anything 
of  the  kind  to  which  he  could  refer 
with  complacency,  there  is  no  moral 
doubt  that  he  would  have  mentioned 
it  freely,  adding  such  embellishments 
and  circumstances  as  he  well  knew 
how. 

In  the  absence  of  evidence  as  to 
the  course  of  his  life,  we  arc  left  to 
conjecture  how  he  spent  the  forty 
years,  more  or  less,  between  the  time 
of  his  studies  at  Clement's  Inn  and 
the  day  when  Shakespeare  introduces 
him  to  us.  We  have  no  doubt  that 
he  spent  all,  or  nearly  all,  this  time 
in  London.  His  habits  were  such  as 
are  formed  by  life  in  a  great  city  ; 
his  conversation  betrays  a  man  who 
has  lived,  as  it  were,  in  a  crowd,  and 
the  busy  haunts  of  men  were  the  ap- 
propriate scene  for  the  display  of  his 


222  FALSTAFF. 

great  qualities.  London,  even  then, 
was  a  great  city,  and  the  study  of  it 
might  well  absorb  a  lifetime.  Falstaff 
knew  it  well,  from  the  Court,  with 
which  he  always  preserved  a  connec- 
tion, to  the  numerous  taverns  where 
he  met  his  friends  and  eluded  his 
creditors.  The  Boar's  Head  in  East- 
cheap  was  his  headquarters,  and,  like 
Barnabee's,  two  centuries  later,  his 
journeys  were  from  tavern  to  tavern  ; 
and,  like  Barnabee,  he  might  say 
^  Multwn  bibi,  unnqnam  prausi!  To 
begin  with,  no  doubt  the  dinner  bore 
a  fair  proportion  to  the  fluid  which 
accompanied  it,  but  by  degrees  the 
liquor  encroached  on  and  superseded 
the  viands,  until  his  tavern  bills  took 
the  shape  of  the  one  purloined  by 
Prince  Henry,  in  which  there  was 
but  one  halfpenny-worth  of  bread  to 
an  intolerable  deal  of  sack.  It  was 
this  inordinate  consumption  of  sack 
(and  not  sighing  and  grief,  as  he  sug- 


FALSTAFF.  zzt, 

gests)  which  blew  him  up  hkc  a  blad- 
der. A  life  of  leisure  in  London 
always  had,  and  still  has,  its  temp- 
tations. Falstaff's  means  were  de- 
scribed by  the  Chief  Justice  of  Hen- 
ry IV.  as  very  slender,  but  this  was 
after  they  had  been  wasted  for  years. 
Originally  they  were  more  ample, 
and  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  liv- 
ing at  ease  with  his  friends.  No  do- 
mestic cares  disturbed  the  even  tenor 
of  his  life.  Bardolph  says  he  was  bet- 
ter accommodated  than  with  a  wife. 
Like  many  another  man  about  town, 
he  thought  about  settling  down  when 
he  was  getting  up  in  years.  He  week- 
ly swore,  so  he  tells  us,  to  marry  old 
Mistress  Ursula,  but  this  was  only 
after  he  saw  the  first  white  hair  on 
his  chin.  But  he  never  led  Mistress 
Ursula  to  the  altar.  The  only  other 
women  for  whom  he  formed  an  early 
attachment  were  Mistress  Quickly, 
the  hostess  of  the  Boar's  Head,  and 


224  FALSTAFF. 

Doll  Tearshcct,  who  is  described  by 
the  page  as  a  proper  gentlewoman, 
and  a  kinswoman  of  his  master's. 
There  is  no  denying  that  Falstaff 
was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  Mis- 
tress Quickly,  but  he  never  admitted 
that  he  made  her  an  offer  of  mar- 
riage. She,  however,  asserted  it  in 
the  strongest  terms,  and  with  a  wealth 
of  circumstance. 

We  must    transcribe    her    story  : 

*  Thou  didst  swear  to  me  upon  a 
'parcel -gilt  goblet,  sitting  in  my 
'  Dolphin-chamber,  at  the  round  table, 

*  by  a  sea-coal   fire,  upon  Wednesday 

*  in  Whitsun-week,  when  the   Prince 

*  broke  thy  head  for  liking  his  father 

*  to  a  singing-man  of  Windsor  ;  thou 
'  didst   swear   to  me  then,  as  I  was 

*  washing   thy  wound,   to  marry  me, 

*  and  make  me  my  lady  thy  wife, 
'  Canst  thou  deny  it .-'  Did  not  good- 
'  wife  Keech,  the  butcher's  wife,  come 
'  in  then,  and  call  me  Gossip  Quickly  ,•* 


FALSTAFF.  22$ 

*  coming  in  to  borrow  a  mess  of  vine- 
'  gar;  telling  us  she  had  a  good  dish 
'  of  prawns  ;  whereby  thou  didst  de- 
'  sire  to  eat  some ;  whereby  I  told 
'  thee  they  were  ill  for  a  green  wound  ? 
'  And  didst  thou  not,  when  she  was 
'  gone  downstairs,  desire  me  to  be  no 
'  more  so  familiarity  with  such  poor 
'  people  ;  saying  that  ere  long  they 
'  should  call  me  madam  ?  And  didst 
'  thou  not  kiss  me,  and  bid  me  fetch 
'  thee  thirty  shillings  ?  I  put  thee 
'  now  to  thy  book-oath ;  deny  it  if 
'  thou  canst ! ' 

We  feel  no  doubt  that  if  Mistress 
Quickly  had  given  this  evidence  in 
action  for  breach  of  promise  of  mar- 
riage, and  goodwife  Keech  corrobo- 
rated it,  the  jury  would  have  found 
a  verdict  for  the  plaintiff,  unless  in- 
deed they  brought  in  a  special  verdict 
to  the  effect  that  Falstaff  made  the 
promise,  but  never  intended  to  keep 
it.  But  Mistress  Quickly  contented 
15 


226  FALSTAFF. 

herself  with  upbraiding  Falstaff,  and 
he  cajoled  her  with  his  usual  skill, 
and  borrowed  more  money  of  her. 

Falstaff's  attachment  for  Doll  Tear- 
sheet  lasted  many  years,  but  did  not 
lead  to  matrimony.  From  the  Cle- 
ment's Inn  days  till  he  was  three- 
score he  lived  in  London  celibate, 
and  his  habits  and  amusements  were 
much  like  those  of  other  single  gen- 
tlemen about  town  of  his  time,  or,  for 
that  matter,  of  ours.  He  had  only 
himself  to  care  for,  and  he  cared  for 
himself  well.  Like  his  page,  he  had 
a  good  angel  about  him,  but  the  devil 
outbid  him.  He  was  as  virtuously 
given  as  other  folk,  but  perhaps  the 
devil  had  a  handle  for  temptation  in 
that  congenital  thirst  of  his.  He  was 
a  social  spirit  too,  and  he  tells  us  that 
company,  villainous  company,  was  the 
spoil  of  him.  He  was  less  than 
thirty  when  he  took  the  faithful  Bar- 
dolph   into  his  service,  and  only  just 


FALSTAFF.  227 

past  that  age  when  he  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  nimble  Poins.  Be- 
fore he  was  forty  he  became  the  con- 
stant guest  of  Mistress  Quickly. 
Pistol  and  Nym  were  later  acquisi- 
tions, and  the  Prince  did  not  come 
upon  the  scene  till  Falstaff  was  an 
old  man  and  knighted. 

There  is  some  doubt  as  to  when 
he  obtained  this  honour.  Richard  II. 
bestowed  titles  in  so  lavish  a  manner 
as  to  cause  discontent  among  many 
who  didn't  receive  them.  In  1377, 
immediately  on  his  accession,  the 
earldom  of  Nottingham  was  given  to 
Thomas  Mowbray,  and  on  the  same 
day  three  other  earls  and  nine  knights 
were  created.  We  have  not  been 
able  to  discover  the  names  of  these 
knights,  but  we  confidently  expect  to 
unearth  them  some  day,  and  to  find 
the  name  of  Sir  John  Falstaff  among 
them.  We  have  already  stated  that 
Falstaff  had  done  no  service  in  the 


228  FALSTAFF. 

field  at  this  time,  so  he  could  not  have 
earned  his  title  in  that  manner.  No 
doubt  he  got  it  through  the  influence 
of  Mowbray,  who  was  in  a  position  to 
get  good  things  for  his  friends  as  well 
as  for  himself.  It  was  but  a  poor 
acknowledgment  for  the  inestimable 
benefit  of  occasionally  talking  wdth 
Fal staff  over  a  quart  of  sack. 

We  will  not  pursue  F'alstaff's  life 
further  than  this.  It  can  from  this 
point  be  easily  collected.  It  is  a 
thankless  task  to  paraphrase  a  great 
and  familiar  text.  To  attempt  to  tell 
the  story  in  better  words  than  Shake- 
speare would  occur  to  no  one  but 
Miss  Braddon,  who  has  epitomised 
Sir  Walter,  or  to  Canon  Farrar,  who 
has  elongated  the  Gospels.  But  we 
feel  bound  to  add  a  few  words  as  to 
character.  There  are,  we  fear,  a 
number  of  people  who  regard  Fal- 
staff  as  a  worthless  fellow,  and  who 
would   refrain  (if   they   could)    from 


FA /.STAFF.  229 

laughing  at  his  jests.  These  people 
do  not  understand  his  claim  to  grate- 
ful and  affectionate  regard.  He  did 
more  to  produce  that  mental  condi- 
tion of  which  laughter  is  the  expres- 
sion than  any  man  who  ever  lived. 
I5ut  for  the  cheering  presence  of  him, 
and  men  like  him,  this  vale  of  tears 
would  be  a  more  terrible  dwelling- 
place  than  it  is.  In  short,  Falstaff 
has  done  an  immense  deal  to  allevi- 
ate misery  and  promote  positive  hap- 
piness. What  more  can  be  said  of 
your  heroes  and  philanthropists  } 

It  is,  perhaps,  characteristic  of  this 
commercial  age  that  benevolence 
should  be  always  associated,  if  not 
considered  synonymous,  with  the  giv- 
ing of  money.  But  this  is  clearly 
mistaken,  for  we  have  to  consider 
what  effect  the  money  given  produces 
on  the  minds  and  bodies  of  human 
beings.  Sir  Richard  Whittington 
was   an   eminently  benevolent  man, 


230  FALSTAFF. 

and  spent  his  money  freely  for  the 
good  of  his  fellow-citizens.  (We  sin- 
cerely hope,  by  the  way,  that  he  lent 
some  of  it  to  Falstaff  without  secu- 
rity.) He  endowed  hospitals  and 
other  charities.  Hundreds  were  re- 
lieved by  his  gifts,  and  thousands 
(perhaps)  are  now  in  receipt  of  his 
alms.  This  is  well.  Let  the  sick 
and  the  poor,  who  enjoy  his  hospi- 
tality and  receive  his  doles,  bless  his 
memory.  But  how  much  wider  and 
further -reaching  is  the  influence  of 
Falstaff !  Those  who  enjoy  his  good 
things  are  not  only  the  poor  and  the 
sick,  but  all  who  speak  the  English 
language.  Nay,  more  ;  translation 
has  made  him  the  inheritance  of  the 
world,  and  the  benefactor  of  the  en- 
tire human  race. 

It  may  be,  however,  that  some 
other  nations  fail  fully  to  understand 
and  appreciate  the  mirth  and  the 
character  of  the  man.     A  Dr.  G.  G. 


FALSTAFF.  231 

Gcrviniis,  of  Ilcidclbcrj;,  has  written, 
in  the  German  lan^^uagc,  a  heavy 
work  on  Shakespeare,  in  which  he 
attacks  Falstaff  in  a  very  solemn  and 
determined  manner,  and  particularly 
charges  him  with  selfishness  and 
want  of  conscience.  We  are  inclined 
to  set  down  this  malignant  attack  to 
envy.  Falstaff  is  the  author  and 
cause  of  universal  laughter.  Dr.  Ger- 
vinus  w^ill  never  be  the  cause  of  any- 
thing universal  ;  but,  so  far  as  his 
influence  extends,  he  produces  head- 
aches. It  is  probably  a  painful  sense 
of  this  contrast  that  goads  on  the 
author  of  headaches  to  attack  the 
author  of  laughter. 

But  is  there  anything  in  the  charge } 
We  do  not  claim  anything  like  per- 
fection, or  even  saintliness,  for  Fal- 
staff. But  we  may  say  of  him,  as 
Byron  says  of  Venice,  that  his  very 
vices  are  of  the  gentler  sort.  And 
as  for  this  char^re  of  selfishness  and 


232  FALSTAFF. 

want  of  conscience,  we  think  that  the 
words  of  Bardolph  on  his  master's 
death  are  an  overwhelming  answer 
to  it.  Bardolph  said,  on  hearing  the 
news :  *  I  would  I  were  with  him 
'wheresoever  he  is:  whether  he  be  in 
'heaven  or  hell.'  Bardolph  was  a  mere 
serving-man,  not  of  the  highest  sen- 
sibility, and  he  for  thirty  years  knew 
his  master  as  his  valet  knows  the 
hero.  Surely  the  man  who  could 
draw  such  an  expression  of  feeling 
from  his  rough  servant  is  not  the 
man  to  be  lightly  charged  with  self- 
ishness !  Which  of  us  can  hope  for 
such  an  epitaph,  not  from  a  hireling, 
but  from  our  nearest  and  dearest  ? 
Does  Dr.  Gervinus  know  anyone  who 
will  make  such  a  reply  to  a  posthu- 
mous charge  against  him  of  dulness 
and  lack  of  humour  } 


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